


One Step Back

by Pinkrhin0



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: And is also the Lord of Shades, Body sharing but not in a weird way or anything, Gen, Ghost eventually learns how to talk, Non-Graphic Violence, Other characters will appear but those are the main three, Post Godmaster endings, Quirrel is full of Secret Magics and he's just gotta deal with that, So watch out for those sick spoilers I guess, The Knight goes by Ghost, There is a LITTLE bit of literal dying but they get better so it doesn't count
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-14 15:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 68,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20602832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkrhin0/pseuds/Pinkrhin0
Summary: Having killed the Radiance and become trapped in Godhome by the destruction of their body, the Lord of Shades tried to get used to their new life as a god.Months later, bored out of their mind, they decide to return to a much changed Hallownest by any means possible.TEMPORARILY ON HIATUS





	1. Down to Earth

The Pantheons felt like nothing more than a cage.

The Ghost of Hallownest remembered a time when they were excited to see those marble columns, when the sight of the statues lining the Hall of Gods inspired wonder instead of boredom.

Of course, that was when they could leave Godhome.

They had killed the Radiance at Her source, and with Her death spilt a great tide of black void upon the home of the Godseekers, washing not only each hall and pillar and pool of Her influence for good, but the sea of clouds outside as well; Replacing the gold opulence with the greys and blacks of the Abyss. Home, sweet, home.

And now they couldn’t wake up. The exit had been sealed to them and for months the Little Ghost had nothing to do other than wander Godhome aimlessly, fighting and refighting the pantheons until they could defeat it all without thinking. Even the stupid Eternal Ordeal lost it's joy. With nothing to do they took to sweeping through the corridors, their body strange now; Twisted by the glut of power they had come into, long and wrong, many armed and writhing. Wherever they went the Godseekers congregated around them. Wrapped bodies lining the walls and bowing their heads until their masks scraped the tile, muttering prayers and offerings to the god-in-dream gracing them with its continued presence.

Void given Focus.

The Lord of Shades.

They _hated_ it. The strange adoration caught in their gut and twisted into disgust. The Seekers whispered to the Ghost of their power, the great things they could achieve, how they could reach down into the minds of the simple bugs below like the great Light did before them and fill each and every one with themselves; They could build their own kingdom, a Hallownest stained with void, mindless bugs toiling away in the interests of an absent god.

No. The idea made Ghost feel sick.

They cared little for the Pale King, cruel tyrant that he was, but he made them with a singular purpose. The vessels were created to stop the Radiance and preserve the free will of Hallownest. And they had gone far beyond their intended purpose to do it. They had _succeeded_ where every iteration before had failed.

Now, they were finally able to act of their own accord and they found themselves trapped outside of the very kingdom they’d grown to love. They wanted to _wander_! To _explore_! Meet the new bugs recovering from the throes of the infection! Visit old friends! They weren’t _designed_ to want, they had never really felt anything before, but now they were different and they _did_, they did so, so much. Mind a maelstrom of desires they shouldn’t have been able to conceive. 

It wouldn’t do.

And so, the Ghost finally found themselves exiting Godhome and descending through the void-stained clouds into the unconscious world below.

A facsimile of Hallownest spread out beneath them, built from the memories and experiences of the bugs living there. They had visited before, when their power was fresh; But the experience of coming down and being unable to interact with anything upset them beyond words, forcing them to turn tail back to the halls of the Godseekers.

Ghost could see the minds of the bugs living below, illuminated pinpricks of light brighter than any lumafly; Dirtmouth positively bursting with more bugs than they had ever seen in one place. Dipping into the streets, they brushed the collective minds inquisitively; listening into the surface thoughts of the new populace.

One little bug sat on the bench, her mind giving up a titbit of information that snapped Ghost’s attention to her instantly, shutting out the whirling thoughts of everyone else.

Hornet had bought them all here.

Pride swelled in the Ghost’s once empty chest and they dug further into the mind of the bug that had given that information, unspooling weeks of memories into the air around them. The bug thought so highly of her! They saw her as Hornet the Rescuer, the Protector, the brave soul who dived into the depths of Hallownest and pulled the struggling and the sick back to the surface, who coordinated medical aid and who ensured no mouths went hungry.

Ghost spread their senses over the town experimentally, feeling for Hornet’s mind within the throng. With no sign of her in Dirtmouth, they threw their net wider, encompassing all of Hallownest for a few brief moments, before quickly filtering through the animals and beasts roaming the halls to find their target. The faint prick of void within her body making her easy to locate.

Greenpath, of course. Taking some time for herself.

They knew they could easily move their incorporeal form down there to visit her, but to what end? She had her hands full looking after the survivors of the plague, and the Ghost didn’t actually have any idea as to how they were going to regain a physical body.

They flung their senses out again, feeling for that strange chamber underneath the city. Perhaps some part of their shell had survived intact?

However, instead of the body of the Godseeker and her glitzy sarcophagus, they found nothing but void. Half filling the room, it lapped at the piles of junk like an ocean.

_Wait. _

The Void sea had risen, Ghost realised. It had risen by miles. The sudden influx of power from killing the Radiance and being fully attuned to by the Godseekers had sent it spilling through the Ancient Basin and up into the upper tunnels, flooding everything in its way until coming to a rest in the Junk Pit.

No wonder Hornet had moved everyone to the surface, for without the lighthouse the sea writhed wildly, tendrils lashing up through the waterways to break into the Funal Wastes, the City of Tears, and anywhere else within reach; Bursting through canals and drains to grab at anything in range.

Ghost followed one up, watching as it invaded a house through the toilet, ripped an old curtain off the wall and descended back into the deep with its prize.

Okay, not ideal, but they could fix that in time.

However, the sea gave no signs of their shell. It seemed whatever happened to their body had obliterated the lower half of the chamber. The Ghost dived only to find a crater where the Godseeker once sat. The voided waters around it tasting of pulverised shell and putrid old soul.

Of course. Of course, their shell would be gone. Nothing came easy for the Ghost, not even peace. The void sea had calmed as they dived into it, becoming one with the depths. It was no good as a body, but it would work as a physical hold on the world for now.

With that in mind, they started to drag items of interest into the sea. Lore tablets, journals, books. The city above found itself invaded further, this time with a focus. Temporary shades, imbued not with the souls of the Ghost’s siblings but a simple will to collect, bubbled to the surface. The Ghost sent them drifting towards the Teacher’s Archives with the simple task of collecting anything not nailed down.

Objects already consumed found themselves washed to the shore, the Shade Lord rising from its rest to learn.

They would find a way to return to the physical world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is the first fic I've ever posted to AO3!  
It's a bunch of self-indulgent postgame prattle, but I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it :3  
Short chapter to start but that's just how it be sometimes, more (longer!) updates to come soon.  
Please review!


	2. Real Isopod Hours

The Mayor of Dirtmouth regretted holding town hall that morning.

The room was positively stuffed with chattering, yelling bugs of all types, all clamouring for his attention.

He was one of the old aristocrats. One of the few that actually _did_ something before Hallownest fell. More importantly, he was only supposed to be in charge for the interim, until Lady Hornet came back from the holiday he and the other governors had practically forced her to take.

He thought, as the crowd only grew louder, that she had probably given him this position as a punishment.

_“Those tentacles are stealing right out of people’s hands!”_

_“They took my bag!”_

_“They’re attacking people!”_

_“Fog Canyon is crawling with ghosts!”_

The Mayor massaged his forehead with one hand. “Does anyone have any complaints that I can _actually_ address at the moment?” The clamouring crowd fell silent, prompting the old bug to sigh. He was never one for public relations. “Okay. I hear your concerns. We are investigating the tentacle problem right at this moment,” A small lie, Hornet had already told them she knew what it was, and she had already admitted there was currently no way to combat it.

Since she had left, though, things had changed; Turning from a threat into an active danger, if the commonfolk were to be believed. “As the situation has changed, I will send some of my best bugs down to the City of Tears to see if they can find the reason for this… Sudden escalation.” Another small lie. With nearly everyone still recovering from the infection and Hornet unreachable, they only really had one ‘best bug’. “Until then, all travel into the lower reaches of Hallownest will have to stop.” This caused a bit of dissent, as more than a few bugs in Dirtmouth made their living scavenging below.

As the guards escorted the petitioners out, the Mayor called one over. “Summon the Defender.” He said, “I have a mission for him.”

\---

Apart from the frankly horrifying methods discovered in the Soul Sanctum, the City of Tears didn’t reveal much in the way of the construction of bodies.

Well, the Tower of Love certainly contained writings on… Another way about it. Ghost withdrew their creeping tendrils from the building very, very quickly after that little bout of reading.

The shades had bought back armfuls of vials from the archives, probably full to brim with the knowledge they searched for, but Ghost still couldn’t make heads nor tails of the writings within.

They needed someone to read them. Or perhaps, teach them to read them? Whichever came faster. Monomon’s essence had been absorbed into their body but her mind had departed with her soul to whatever afterlife she was bound for. The rest of her staff was long dead, the shades finding no signs of re-emerging life in the building.

Ah, but one Archive bug still remained.

Quirrel. Of course. He was clever and kind, and he would help, the Ghost was sure of it. They considered him their first and firmest friend.

But first to find him. The Shade Lord re-emerged from the void sea, severing their mind from it and allowing the tendrils to act once again without thought.

They let their senses spread. It would be hard to find a regular bug within the new masses, but the Ghost had all the time and resources in the world to search. They just had to dip lightly into each mind, scrape the barest marker of identity from their subconscious and move on, it would take time and energy, but the Ghost of Hallownest did not get where they were now by allowing boredom to-

… Their thoughts stopped as something sharp_ stabbed _at the edge of their awareness. It tasted of electricity and ozone, the sting of acid and the smell of ink, the tang of magic known and unknown, the quiet sounds of the archives and the dusts of the wastes.

Right. Quirrel was no regular bug. In fact, he had the most distinctive mind in all of Hallownest, because to the eyes of a god-in-dream it looked as though it had been torn clear through.

Ghost could taste the familiar magic of Monomon. It diffused her Archive like a cloud, keeping every record spotless and whole even after her centuries of absence. It infused her mask and here it wove through Quirrel’s mind like string, clenched tight to hold each important piece together even after the strange magic of the wastelands had blasted through his memories, leaving nothing but a pile of disconnected shards of knowledge over which a delicate lattice of new memory grew.

A different magic coursed through the rest of his body, once again from the Teacher but for what purpose Ghost couldn’t quite attain. Even in their new state, they were no spellweaver.

They pulled their senses back together to find themselves at the Howling Cliffs. Quirrel asleep against the wall of a blocked-off cave, the embers of a fire dying at his feet.

They had learnt many things during their time wandering Hallownest, one of those things being manners. They had to ask for help first. Bundling up their body, Ghost slipped into the gaping hole in Quirrel’s mind, careful not to disturb the fragile new mosaic of memories and even more careful not to touch the woven strings of magic. He wasn’t dreaming, otherwise they could simply hop in with no more than a thought. So instead they continued to tug themselves deeper until they hit the sleeping form of his consciousness, eased gently in beside it, and started a dream of their own.

\---

Quirrel leant back on the bench as the rain poured gently against the window.

He loved the sound of water on glass. He’d never really heard it before, buildings with windows this large so rare out beyond the kingdom, but he knew from somewhere deep in his soul that he had _always_ loved this sound.

There was something strange about the City of Tears that day, he thought, the haunting ambiance had quieted somewhat. The horrid groans of husk guards and citizens drowned out by the rain.

His fascinating little friend shifted next to him, the strange bug turning their empty eyes towards him in a way that always, somehow or another, prompted him to start speaking.

“I’ll never tire of this view.” He murmured, taking a second to find his voice. “Although, it’s tinged with tragedy, is it not? This was once the home of countless bugs, living and working. But now? It’s empty.”

The little wanderer dropped their gaze past him, staring out through the window as if in thought. Well, let them think. He let the conversation hang as it was, happy to sit in quiet companionship.

The two sat there together for what felt like hours, Quirrel finding himself enjoying the slow congregation of these strange, glowing motes that filled the air around them as time went on.

_Dream Essence._ The information came to him as it always did, unfettered, unsourced, but always true.

_How strange,_ he thought, the idea that he may be dreaming slipping away from his sleeping mind like sand through fingers. _How strange to see such a rare phenomenon in a place such as this._

The rustling of parchment pulled him from his thoughts as the little bug beside him produced a map. They tugged at his arm, tapping at a point under the city, close to the Fungal Wastes.

“Hm?” They pressed the map into Quirrel’s hands, pointing urgently at it. “What’s wrong?” He squinted in the half-light of the lumaflies (_When did they get so dark?_), “Did you lose something here?” the little bug waved their hand in a ‘so-so’ kind of motion.

“… You want to show me something there?” So-so again. Quirrel scratched under his bandana, trying and failing to recognise the room. “…You need help with something there?”

That did it. They leapt off the bench, nodding and pointing wildly, grabbing at him and tugging him to his feet with a burst of unexpected strength. “Okay! Okay, I’ll help you, my friend.” Checking the map again, Quirrel looked out upon the city. “This is a fine map, I can see a way down nearby.”

When he looked back, the room had filled with dream essence until it was blinding.

And as the dream dissolved around him, he barely noticed as the little wanderer twisted into a smear of shadow. _“My friend?”_

\---

The Ghost pulled themselves free of the dream with a sense of satisfaction. They were sure Quirrel wouldn’t be able to resist such a mystery, for he _was_ a curious sort. All they had to do was follow him back to the Junk Pit. The tendrils of the void sea would do as a clumsy form of communication to get him to translate the archive speak for them.

The perfect plan.

Perfect until they started to back out of Quirrel’s mind and immediately hit a string of Monomon’s magic. In a second it had coiled around them, pulling them, pushing them, compressing them, Ghost struggled against the spell as best they could but oh, Quirrel’s brain was a fragile thing; Break the spell and the ravages of the wasteland could finally claim the rest of his mind. Struggle too hard and shatter the mosaic of new memory.

Ghost opted to pull against the spell, hoping to stretch it until they had a chance to escape between the coils without hurting their friend, but more and more strings of power rose as they struggled, wrapping them tighter, pulling them deeper inside, cutting into their incorporeal form like wire as they pulled but their senses were dulling fast, receding around them and they couldn’t risk hurting their friend, not now, not in a way they couldn’t fix, not even as the spell bound _into_ their form as it gave one last tug, slotting them into place in the matrix of magic and mind, pushing, _pushing_, **_pushing…_**

Until they jerked awake, suddenly, with a howl of terror. 

They were… Lying against a wall.

The embers of a fire died at their feet. At the end of legs far too long.

Their body was the wrong shape. Their breaths caught and made _noise_.

Their hands flew to their mask. It was flat and round and only covered their face, a chill crept up their neck, bare apart from a strip of cloth, as they fumbled; Tearing it off painfully.

A bug’s mask was never supposed to be removed, not for long, but they had to see.

They turned it in their hands until they were face to face with a familiar pair of empty eyes.

It was Quirrel’s mask.

_They were Quirrel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay okay I realise that was a very quick turnaround so I just wanna say now the rest of the chapters will have about a week between each.  
THAT BEING SAID,  
I'll be busy next week and I wanted to bring in the 'meat and potatoes' conflict of the fic asap.  
Events have been kicked into motion, Ghost has returned to the physical world in entirely the wrong way, and no one's happy about Slappy Tentacle Town.  
Exciting!  
Like before, please review! :3


	3. Noises and Nuisance

_“Hhhhamnh”_ Ghost said, splitting Quirrel’s mandibles as far open as they would go.

_“Oooofffth”_ They spat, sticking their friend’s fingers into his own mouth and pulling at all the different parts.

_“Gaaaaahg”_ They gurgled, enjoying how they could change the nature of the sound simply by changing the arrangement of Quirrel’s mouthparts.

Ghost never had any real desire to ‘properly’ communicate. They didn’t need to, they weren’t designed with the ability in mind, and honestly, they didn’t ever feel like they wanted to. Meaning flowed like water in the void, words and phrases only ever stood in the way of understanding.

But they decided, after the initial shock passed, that they really, _really_, liked making noises. It was strange and uncomfortable being shoved into the form of someone else, yes, but they could also “_Hurgle”_ indiscriminately. Upsides.

Unfortunately, this was overshadowed by the massive downside of this _not being their body._

They needed to get to the waterways. The Ghost could still feel Quirrel’s sleeping mind scraping against their own, he could still read the acid writing for them, they could still drag their way out of the bindings holding them inside his body if they just had a waiting vessel of their own and enough soul to cast the correct spells. The plan was still possible.

His mask went back on easily enough, porcelain sealing against shell with a small spark of soul. Ghost could feel where it _didn’t_ seal as well, a gap under his mouth that left plenty of room for them to stick their hands in again if they so desired.

But after that, to stand. Ghost took a few attempts to get their new legs underneath them, the unfamiliar pull of real muscles and joints took time to get used to. Balance was strange too; Before, they could just stand and that was it. But now the world moved with them and forced them to get a firm footing. Which is possibly why they fell over immediately upon taking their first step.

With only a few more wobbles, Ghost made their way to the entrance of the cave. The mouth was blocked by a pile of debris that only took a little effort to shift, and probably just served to keep beasts out until the morning. They had no weapon, but for now they didn’t need one; The journey up the cliffs to Dirtmouth was a simple one, and one they had taken quite a few times already as they travelled the width and berth of the kingdom.

It took only an hour or so to drop into the King’s Pass. They landed hard, as always, but now it jolted painfully through their legs, prompting a pained hiss from Ghost as their ankle gave out and they flopped to the floor with an inelegant thud. Tensely, they stretched their senses outside Quirrel’s shell. No leaking soul, no sign of bleeding.

Good, but they had to be more careful.

The journey through the pass was spent carefully picking over spikes and clambering down drops rather than risking it. The pain from the fall still spiked through their leg on occasion, forcing them to keep a slow pace.

Climbing down the cliff face into Dirthmouth was more difficult, a strange burning built in their arms and forced them to stop and rest on an outcropping for a while.

The town below bustled and glowed brighter than they’d ever seen it. So many bugs had survived the infection… And nearly all came to populate the town. Ghost felt a feeling of pride bubble in their chest, warm and full. Dirtmouth was no longer a fading town. It was bustling.

_“Ahhh.”_ The content sigh surprised them. Another good sound! They would add that to their growing list of noises.

After another few minutes the burn in their arms had dulled enough for them to risk the rest of the climb and enter Dirthmouth proper.

The main street of the town had become a place of active trade, it seemed. Bugs familiar and unfamiliar had set up shop in both buildings and ramshackle stalls alike. They spotted someone selling fruit from Greenpath, and another hawking both fresh and cooked meat. They had a fire burning with a slatted metal sheet set out on top: Three vengefiles impaled on sticks and sizzling gently. The smell they gave off was intoxicating and made Ghost’s borrowed insides feel suddenly tight and unpleasant.

They hurried past in the hopes to quell the sensation, only to bump almost directly into Elderbug.

“Oh!” The old bug stumbled a little. “Dear me! Please pay attention, our town is a little more packed these days.” Elderbug squinted up, making Ghost realise they didn’t need to crane their head to talk to anyone anymore. Strange. “… I recognise you, Traveller. You said you were leaving for the wastelands. Perhaps you took my warnings to heart, hm?”

As Elderbug waited for a response, Ghost started to panic. What were they expected to do? Make a noise? Nod? They had no context and no idea what the correct response was. They tossed around for a second before pointing to the well, distracted for a moment by the newly installed ladder sticking out of it. _“Nnnm.”_

The old bug cocked his head, gaze falling on the well. “… I see. Well, if you want to go back down, I shan’t stop you! It’s safer now by far but, be warned. There are still many beasts below.”

Ghost nodded firmly, turned, and started to walk. Keeping their eyes ahead to avoid being trapped into another conversation.

Dirtmouth had branched into the portion of the crossroads below the well. The bugs milling about looked to be ones from lower portions of the kingdom, uncomfortable under the sky. The shops dotted around sold weapons, and they would occasionally spot a surviving guard from the city below, standing outside the entrances to dangerous passages.

Something in their guts still ached. It twisted as they walked and made a terrible gurgling that Ghost decided would not go on the list of fun sounds to make.

Two more guards stood outside the lift to the City of Tears.

Like the rest, these guards looked the same as they always had, sans the glowing orange eyes. Although, Ghost noticed each and every one they saw wore a flash of red cloth somewhere on their armour.

They would recognise Hornet’s preferred shade anywhere. The guards were hers.

At their approach one stepped up, crossing his weapon in front of the entrance. “Sorry sir,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “No entry to the city. It’s too dangerous.”

Ghost ignored him, the wishes of a guard irrelevant to their mission, opting instead to step up and push at the bug’s weapon, watching as he struggled and failed to keep it in place. He was visibly weak, him and his partner still recovering from the ravages of the infection. Good. That would make them easier to circumvent.

“Hey!” The guard pushed them off, hissing a quick _“Help me here!”_ to their partner. “Listen, I’m telling you to leave. Do it.”

The other guard stepped up and crossed her spear in front of them as well. “We’re on orders from the office of Lady Hornet herself. No one’s getting in.” Ghost cocked their head, feeling out their soul reserves. Quirrel had it in abundance. Perhaps he was a spellcaster as well?

“Anyway,” The second guard ploughed on, “You don’t wanna go down there anyway, trust me. They’re saying a bunch of Deepnest bugs have moved in to escape the rising waters. They’re a nasty lot,” She chuckled. “They’d eat a tubby little thing like you without even thinking!”

Ah. In an instant, any respect they may have shown for these guards flew directly out of the window. Once again, Ghost had learnt many things during their time wandering Hallownest, one of those being manners. This bug had none. It took less than a second for Ghost to decide they’d had enough, and less time than that to shadow dash right through her. They executed the spell with the same natural ease they always had, as if for a second, they weren’t wearing the shell of another person. Although this time it wasn’t the smooth ride they were used to; Like a liquid they splashed into her and then through her, with a strange physical turbulence that left them cold and winded and sent the rude guard to the ground with a wail as the full force of the void shot through her body, weapon clattering behind her.

They had no charms. Sharp Shadow wasn’t in effect, it felt as if they had simply snagged on her as they moved through.

No time to think about it.

Ghost rushed towards the lift, stooping briefly to grab the spear as the uninjured guard trampled after them, yelling obscenities and orders in equal measure as the downed bug’s wails became screams. Throwing the spear ahead, the Ghost leapt into the cart as the weapon hit the leaver and the wrought iron door slammed shut behind them with a resounding clang. The lift mechanism springing to life with a loud clanking of chains, dropping them into the shaft and leaving the furious guard behind.

The sudden rush made whatever injury they’d taken to the leg flare painfully, and as they slowly travelled, Ghost let their knees give out and flopped to the floor with a shiver. A fine mist of void clung to them, freezing droplets congealing across Quirrel’s carapace with a feeling like little shards of ice covering their body. It made them tremble and only worsened the twisting in their gut, which had been joined by a dry, sticky feeling in their mouth.

Far behind them, the bug’s screams finally tapered out into nothing.

They were not doing well. They understood, logically, that they were never a bug. They could move endlessly, they needed not air, nor food, nor water. Just the void and a shell to contain it. All injuries were nothing more than temporary stabs of pain and a weakening that told them they’d been hit, not the hours of slowly increasing aching they were putting up with as they travelled.

They needed help, Ghost decided, stumbling upright as the lift came to a stop; Sweeping up the spear as they went. Someone who knew how to look after themselves. The Relic Seeker lived nearby, perhaps they could ask? Ghost felt slightly more amicable to the idea of communicating their desires with noises now. They had decided it was quite fun.

_“Kiiiral. _Kah-rillel. _Keeel.” _They muttered, practising their friend’s name as they dragged themselves down the empty corridor. _“Kirral. Keeeerlmm-_my Lady,” Quirrel murmured in his sleep, cutting across the Ghost’s chattering. “-The research team is exhausted. I think we should rest here for a bit.” He twitched, forcing Ghost to tighten their grip on the spear, an odd laugh bubbling out as Quirrel continued to mumble. “Oh, I know Madam… The sights are wonderful… But they won’t go anywhere… We can get a head start… Categorizing… _The samples…”_

Ghost was suddenly struck with the radical idea that they could simply hole up somewhere and wait for Quirrel to wake up and deal with his own strange body-needs.

The lift rattled back to life in the distance, prompting them to shuffle a little faster. It took them a few minutes to find somewhere out of the way, and a couple more to drag enough furniture in front of the door to feel safe.

They were in the remains of a bedroom. It looked like it had been abandoned randomly, like the rest of the city; Parchments strewn on a desk at the end of the room, a long empty glass standing next to them like the owner had just popped out for a refill.

The bed was dusty but still soft, the linens clean and inviting in a way that made their carapace feel like lead. Ghost placed the spear against the bedside table and burrowed into the blankets until they were hidden from the world. They didn’t need to see to keep watch, after all.

As the pain finally tapered from their limbs, Ghost stretched their senses outside their borrowed shell until they were almost aware of everything outside the room; Barely moving as a Menderbug wandered by to fix a light they’d knocked over on their way into the building, not even twitching as the void lashed at the buildings far beneath their feet.

With nothing else to do, they settled in to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAH! I LURED YOU INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY BY SAYING I MAY NOT UPDATE THIS WEEK  
Only kidding, I forgot I said that and also I turned out to have way more time than I expected  
Man I'm sure committing an assult while wearing your friend's skin will have ABSOLUTELY no consequences for either of you down the line  
Like what you're reading? Don't forget to review!


	4. Damage Control

Quirrel woke up feeling less rested than he had ever felt in his life.

In fact, he felt horrendous. Like he’d just hiked for hours without food or water. There was a strange pressure behind his eyes that threatened to become a headache, and he could feel the painful scrape of cracked chitin up one ankle as he moved to sit up. His carapace prickling painfully in a hundred different spots in a familiar way that dredged up an old, half-forgotten memory of being accidentally misted with acid in the Archives.

It could be said Quirrel’s mood wasn’t improved by realising he had no idea where he was.

He was in the city. The rain was enough to give that away, and the architecture suggested one of the larger upper-class houses, as opposed to one of the little flats built for the numerous common-folk that once called the place home. There was only one doorway, and it had been extensively blocked from the inside. His memory failed often, Quirrel knew that, but never like this.

He stood with a grunt, pain lacing through his ankle. Grabbing the spear that rested next to the bed and weighing it in his hands. _Either he had done this to himself, or whoever was responsible was still in the room with him,_ he thought, unaware that both counts were technically right.

“Hello?” He called, raising the weapon ever so slightly. “Is anybody there?”

If anyone heard him, they opted to stay silent. So, with no apparent answer he quickly gathered up his things.

He still had his bag, thankfully, and a full skin of water that went some way to making him feel like he wasn’t actively dying anymore, while a couple scraps of unidentified old jerky kicking around at the bottom settled his stomach. He fished out a wrap of bandages for the cracks snaking up his leg (The other was just a bit strained, thankfully), and warily cast his gaze about the room once more.

Still nothing. There were no real hiding places in sight, either, but Quirrel wasn’t foolish enough to assume he was truly alone. He kept his hands tight upon the spear as he crossed the floorboards, tensed like a spring as if something was going to leap through the window towards him at any moment.

He had barely turned towards the pile of furniture at the door when the window really _did_ crash inwards and a black tentacle smashed its way into the room.

Quirrel flung his arms in front of his face as shards of glass shot through the air towards him and the temperature in the room plummeted, leaping back out of the tentacle’s way as it flailed madly about, sweeping a pile of papers off the desk and into itself before smashing down a shelf and sucking up an entire armful of tablets before they could even hit the floor.

Drops of black gunk sprayed from the tentacle as it thrashed, leaving great smears upon the carpet. Where they hit his carapace, the drops started to burn and bubble and freeze in equal measure. Quirrel finding himself shaking them off in a frenzy as they landed, gasping in alarm at the craters left in his shell after only a few seconds of exposure.

He recovered fast, since he didn’t exactly have time to let his guard down anyway, and quickly scanned the room; It was already between him and the door, and the furniture was far too heavy to move quickly, meaning he’d simply have to find another way out before it melted him alive.

The tentacle swept the room from side to side, advancing steadily as it went. _A predictable pattern_, he observed. Sweep and move, sweep and move. It would concentrate on areas that yielded objects it could grab and pull into itself.

For reasons unknown he was injured and physically exhausted, but that never stopped him before. Not while his soul was full, and his mind was sharp.

With a plan in mind, Quirrel put his back to the wall and started to advance towards the window, dodging out of the way whenever the tendril swept past and hoping to the wyrm it wasn’t shedding drops on him.

It was nearing the bed. And with it, his chance to escape. He kept up the pace, inching forwards whenever the opportunity presented itself and then, as the tendril hit the sheets and stopped its motion to wildly pull the bedding into its body he broke into a limping run and vaulted through the broken window.

For a second, he hung there. Then gravity sunk in and he fell _fast._

A set of platforms loomed from another building below, the constant rain cutting visibility to the point that Quirrel only saw them when he was almost past them. He drew upon his soul, and with a blurring and a pulling appeared on the nearest surface with a resounding thump that rattled all the way through the structure as his hastily executed warp failed to properly cancel the momentum of the fall.

“Ugh.” He let himself sit there for a moment, rain soaking into his hood and streaming down his shell, looking over the city.

The scene before him was apocalyptic.

Like the limbs of an angry god, the black tentacles rose from the drains, the canals, and any other entrance they could find. Roving over surfaces and into buildings with an almost obsessive focus. Some were small enough to be almost invisible against the cobbles below, while others towered over entire buildings, as thick as the great vines that covered Greenpath.

It was horrific, it was fascinating, and he wished he had something to write with.

\---

Ghost had no idea how to let Quirrel know they were there.

They had realized, a little late, that as a powerful entity inhabiting a bug’s head and trying to get them to do things they were basically ‘pulling a Radiance’, as it were.

Bugs did not take well to the Radiance. They tended to get upset. And murder-y.

They were not Her, though. They were different, they were not violent. They just needed to watch for their chance.

As he awoke, Ghost squirreled themselves as far into the recesses of his brain as they could, detaching as much as possible lest they move and scare him. They could feel prickles of emotion where they rubbed up against his consciousness, stabs of confusion and worry that they themselves had never felt before, conducting through them like electricity and making their mind writhe horribly.

They settled themselves by turning their thoughts outwards and learning.

Water to wash away the dry, sticky mouth feeling.

Dried, chewy meat to settle the horrid internal twisting.

Bandages to bind the cracks they hadn’t even thought to look for, so used to sealing their wounds with soul and a thought.

Even to them, the Lord of Shades, the giant tentacle of void turned out to be a surprise addition.

Over the night so many others made their way into the building alone that the one snaking up the wall outside had slipped the radar, unnoticed. Of course, how they would have warned against it anyway was up in the air.

The thing about void that made it so prized for the Pale King’s projects is that it does as its been commanded with a singular focus. Never stopping. Most of the time what its been ‘told’ to do is sit in the sea, grabbing at whatever’s passing and bringing it into the masses. When the king found a way to mould it, he created mindless guards and vessels that completed their purpose unwaveringly.

And Ghost, in their haste, had never taken back their command to search the kingdom for knowledge.

As Quirrel overlooked the city, a particularly large tendril wrapped great coils around a distant building, crushing it with a rain-dampened rumble of falling bricks.

… They could still make this work in their favour. With the addition of their mind, the tentacles acted as nothing more than an extension of themselves. Even trapped as they were, they just needed to touch one.

And then Ghost recalled the horrible burning chill of the void on Quirrel’s shell after they used it to bypass the guards, the sizzling of the droplets from the tentacle. Not touch, then. Not if they could help it.

They were jolted from their thoughts as the platforms started to creak and shake. A tentacle, fat with stolen objects from the ransacked city, slithered into their peripheral senses from below. It climbed between the platforms, constantly searching; The motion and weight of its form making them rock and forcing Quirrel to grab a support cable with one hand, the other gripping the spear tighter and bracing against the slick ground.

The tendril climbed closer, and closer.

After crossing the last few meters, it rose briefly to tower over the platform.

Then, as it started to swing down, Quirrel leapt towards it and sunk his spear deep into the void. Like an acrobat, he held on and swung underneath, the full momentum of the jump pushing him forwards and up until he landed deftly on top of the wooden handle in a way that made his ankle burn painfully.

With a nasty sucking sound, it parted under Quirrel’s weight and the spear started to slide towards the ground.

As they moved, Ghost reached their incorporeal form towards the void tendril, squeezing between the bounds of Monomon’s magic as far as they could. It stilled under their influence, although Quirrel almost fell right off his perch as a black hand of shade popped directly out of his neck.

As he stared at their limb, Quirrel didn’t exactly say anything. He instead made a high-pitched noise like someone had stepped on his foot and tightened his grip on the spear until it felt like it would splinter under his fingers.

It would make sense, they reflected, for them only to be invisible when trapped in the dream realm. Being bound into Quirrel’s body more or less grounded them in the physical world, with all the trappings that bought.

Ah, but he didn’t know that. All Quirrel knew was that he had abruptly grown an extra ghost arm from under his bandanna after waking up unexpectedly in the City of Tears in the midst of it being absolutely ransacked.

They couldn’t predict how he would react. Not when their own playbook was nothing but _‘passive acceptance’_ no matter what happened to them. Real bugs… Didn’t _do_ that.

They were squishy inside and those squishes made them feel and do things? Maybe? Ghost didn’t know!

Forced to give up subtlety and head straight into damage control, Ghost plunged their arm into the tentacle and willed everything to _stop_.

The void froze, the city suddenly falling deathly quiet as the unending noise of the tentacles came to a screeching halt, leaving only the ever-present rain and the splash of Quirrel’s spear on the street as they finally came to the ground.

The tentacles hung above the street, casting everything in shadow; Each movement feeling unnaturally loud as Quirrel stepped off and stooped with an exaggerated slowness to sweep up his weapon, eyes never straying from the spectral arm.

Grabbing a handful of the tendril, they wrapped it around their wrist with a quick movement and moved the arm back, the hasty bracelet pulling a rope of void along with them, keeping it tethered to Ghost’s will.

Palm turned towards Quirrel’s face, they waved stiffly.

After a few seconds, he waved back awkwardly. “Hello...?” Eyes flickering to the unmoving tendril of void and back to the hand. “… Are these… Yours?” He asked.

Ghost responded by tugging on the rope of void, detaching and reattaching it at various points to lead where they wanted to go, their hand turning to point in the direction of the entrance to the waterways. Quirrel didn’t move at first, his conflicting emotions bubbled against them, wariness, curiosity and excitement in equal measure.

Then, he straightened, grip tightening on the spear. “Okay.” He took a long breath. “I don’t… Understand what’s happening here right now. But, ignoring this will… _Not_ help me. So, I’ll come along for now. But whatever you are, I _will_ need an explanation; Sooner rather than later.” He waited for a second, watching Ghost’s unwavering hand. “… Please give an indication you can understand me.”

Slowly, they turned their arm back inwards, the black rope pulling tight against their wrist, and produced the world’s most uncomfortable thumbs-up.

Quirrel grimaced under his mask. “Right. Well. Lead the way.”

\---

There were no bodies or beasts in the City of Tears anymore, but for once this was not something Quirrel needed to question.

The black tendrils froze like ice and burnt like acid when touched, and up until a few minutes ago held no qualms about grabbing hold of living or dead bugs alike, dragging them off to, presumably, wherever he was being led.

He always considered himself a brave bug, curious to a fault as any good explorer should be, although some could be forgiven for calling him foolhardy.

In this situation, he wouldn’t blame them, he _was_ doing something incredibly foolish.

The black hand, which he could feel numbly, almost as if it were his own, pointed towards an open sewer grate.

Into the plumbing, then. Charming.

He knew, in that disconnected way he always did, that the Royal Waterways let out across Hallownest. And while he’d never ventured inside, he had seen those great openings in his travels.

It could be taking him anywhere, although some contextless titbit of knowledge told him that wouldn’t be the case; This stuff came from one place only, although he couldn’t quite recall where. Only time would tell, he supposed, distractedly lowering himself through the grate.

The air inside had a certain humid chill about it, drops of water beading on his shell within seconds of touching the ground. It refreshed his gills, a welcome feeling compared to the dry air elsewhere in Hallownest, and unwelcomely soaked the inside of his mask with every breath.

It did not look like a typical sewer. The tunnels were ornate and expansive, connecting enormous chambers designed to contain the worst the rains could throw at them.

Quirrel traced one of the designs decorating the wall with a finger. “This is the handiwork of the Pale King.” He murmured. “He would cover his personal projects with these patterns. Although, I recall…” He bought one hand to his mask in thought. “These waterways didn’t work as intended. They backed up and flooded often, there was even… A spot somewhere that would collect solid waste until the streets stank of it. The King would have to send one of His personal knights to clear it, as no other bug would be able to tolerate the smell.” Responding to a tug on the arm and starting to walk, Quirrel couldn’t help but laugh to himself, half at the idea of a renowned knight shovelling piles of poo and half at the sheer stupidity of his situation. “Now _there’s_ a wonder of Hallownest I don’t want to visit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not violent" Ghost thinks, conveniently forgetting about the events of the last chapter.  
Also, *Fudges my fictional bugman anatomy* Aw beans  
Anyways, Quirrel's up, and he doesn't hate what's happening yet!  
Rest assured, that'll change.  
Pwease Rewiew!


	5. The Royal We

Quirrel felt himself flagging about halfway through the sewers.

Not just physically, although the fact they were they were traversing tunnels that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades, forcing him to trek over all kinds of detritus, scale walls and scramble through holes, did not help.

But mentally, too. He’d been running on panic and fumes since the tentacle showed up, and as the adrenalin ebbed away, he was forced to grapple with what, exactly, he was _doing_.

For example, there was an arm. Coming out of his neck.

_An arm. That commanded acid._

_And he’d agreed to go with it._

_What was he thinking?_

It was too late to head back, for Quirrel had already gone too far and entered what was essentially, its domain.

The tendrils laid thick against the walls and floor of the pipes, parting ahead of him to let him pass before closing up again at his heels. If he changed his mind? Well, he was trapped.

It didn’t help that his ankle throbbed terribly. He felt like he’d already been travelling for hours, and logically, it was probably true. The strange shadow dropped all pretences mere minutes after entering the waterways, saving him from a rather ungainly fall over a loose stone by wrenching control and having him stumble around it.

He had… Essentially kidnapped himself, in a way.

Could it feel his building exhaustion? The ache that spiked with every step? Did it care?

Well, either way, whatever it wanted could wait a bit longer. Trying to take a break would be a good way to test the temperament of this thing. If it didn’t let him, well, then he at least had a better idea as to what he was dealing with.

With that in mind, Quirrel slowed to a stop. “Wait, let me sit down for a second. I’m not at my best.” He felt the gentle tug on the ghostly arm go slack, and Quirrel carefully settled himself on the wet ground.

That answered one question. Also, he would have to see about visiting a hot spring after this.

The water was streaked with the same black as the tendrils, making it run terribly cold. In fact, he could almost say what the black stuff was. Right at the tip of his tongue, hanging against his mandibles. A fact just out of reach.

At least diluting it stopped the burning, he supposed.

After a few minutes of silent sitting, the shadow shifted distractedly, stealing Quirrel’s attention with the unpleasant feeling of his body moving on its own. It opened his mouth and spat a couple of disconnected vowels.

_“Aaaaui… Aaaaammn… Oooooyh…” _It murmured to itself.

“You know, there are better ways to learn to spe- _Ghk”_ Quirrel choked halfway through his sentence as it snapped his mouth closed with a sharp huff of embarrassment. “Ah, forgot I was here, did you? I’d imagine if you could speak, you would already. You should try practising some words.”

It didn’t respond.

“No? Okay.” He continued, seemingly to himself now. “In any case, I don’t feel like moving just yet, and assuming I haven’t simply gone insane-” _If he had, how would he know?_ “-I have a lot of questions!” The shadow had stilled impossibly to the point that Quirrel could almost convince himself it had never been there at all. “You could at least tell me where I am. This area is new to me, staggeringly I never really felt the need to explore the city sewers.”

He felt his head turn as black lines started to climb the wall beside him. Hundreds of tiny, tiny tendrils; Each as thin as individual hairs, rose from the water to produce a simple map. The ghostly hand came up and outlined their route, starting from the sewer grate underneath the Relic Seeker’s shop and down towards a strangely familiar chamber near the Fungal Wastes.

He had seen this exact layout before somewhere. Quirrel leant in further and squinted at it, tracing the lines with his eyes. For some reason, the shadow had included a chunk of the City of Tears that they hadn’t travelled through, including the bench he had rested on in his strange dream the night before.

_… Wait. _

Quirrel’s mind ground to a halt as he came to a very sudden realisation.

“I dreamt I had to come down here..." He blinked heavily, pulling his eyes away from the map. "No, no, I must be going mad. This isn’t possible.” _Prophetic dreams_? Things like this didn’t just happen to bugs like him. 

The tendrils disagreed. The map split apart and reconfigured, twisting into the familiar visage of the little wanderer.

Quirrel didn’t say anything. He slowly reached out, and touched it.

The tendrils pulled away the moment he felt any pain, but as he rubbed his fingers together there was no mistaking the dent in his shell as a hallucination.

“This is _real_.” The words came out fast, breathless, and he turned to stare down the corridor, rising slowly to his feet. “My friend?” He looked down at the shadowy arm, which, once again, waved awkwardly. “_Oh_, what happened to you?”

They didn’t answer, but now at least he didn’t mind. “I’m done resting.” He said, “Lead on.”

There came a pull on the phantom limb as the rope started to lead them deeper into the waterways. The cold water had successfully numbed his legs enough for them to barely ache any more, but as they progressed the chill moved higher until it started to bite bitterly through Quirrel’s carapace, and his breath puffed in little clouds from the gaps in his mask. The water at his feet ran with ice.

The little traveller, if it truly was them, had calmed and withdrawn the tentacles from the city. But as they advanced, they started to grow so thick against the walls it started to become difficult to avoid them; They rustled with stolen objects from the city above, stuffed so fat they could hardly move from his way. Quirrel found himself brushing elbows with the things as he manoeuvred past, when he was lucky, he hit a solid object, when he wasn’t, he wasted precious water washing the stuff off.

At least with the thickness of the tentacles and the gnawing of the cold he could tell they were close.

The last stretch was a slippery clamber over a hill of junk that deposited them firmly onto a beach of rubbish that overlooked a sea of freezing black.

The waters moved like a living thing, spitting tablets, parchments and other such things onto the beach with little ceremony. A handful of tendrils broke through the trash to pile the black-stained remains of a wooden chair into a simple tepee-like shape, while a second patted the ground next to it in a ‘sit here’ gesture.

“Ah, thank you.” Quirrel sat cross-legged and started to dig through his bag for a tinderbox. It took a few attempts to light the fire, for as far as the flames were concerned the wood was “wet” with void.

_Void._ Oh, so that was the word. Quirrel could remember that the Pale King personally had all records on it destroyed. At the time he hadn’t questioned it, and why would he? The mere presence of the King did strange things to the minds of bugs. Even then, he remembered only a little of it.

As he warmed up, the sea spat a pile of old silken parchment and a quill into his lap. The phantom limb attempted to pick up the quill, but merely phased right through it; Seemingly only able to interact with void.

“You can use my arm.” Quirrel said, supressing a shiver as immediately his own hand began to act on its own. He felt it pick up the quill and pause, the tip just hovering over the parchment. Then it dipped the end into the sea and wrote.

_‘radiance infection killed in dream at source never coming back. own body destroyed by power of radiance kill. no body stuck in dream taken radiance place. need to find way to make new body asked quirrel in dream for help quirrel dream self said yes monomon protect quirrel mind with bindings could not escape got stuck inside accident very sorry. can still leave quirrel body if own new body ready and right magic is cast need to find way thinking maybe information in archives but cannot read archive tube writing. will quirrel still help yes’_

They wrote quickly, with no regard for sentence structure or punctuation, slipping a single tube of written acid onto the beach.

Quirrel read the page twice for good measure.

“You killed the Radiance?” He asked, watching as his hand moved to respond.

_‘yes’_ It wrote.

“I… Suspected as much.” He ran his fingers over the parchment idly, wincing as the words bit into the flesh between his joints. “I know what you are. I was involved in the design of the King’s vessels, although I don’t know what part I played. And… In all honestly, I don’t want to. The method was cruel, I recall that much, and the cost was far, _far_ too high.” He swallowed, feeling a lump forming in his throat, the sea rustling suddenly with emotion. “We shouldn’t dwell. It’s done now.”

Quirrel waited for a minute for the void to settle, fighting down his own feeling of guilt, he decided to switch subjects. “Do you have a name, my little friend?”

_‘vessel. object. little friend. cursed sibling. lord of shades. hornet use ghost. good name. is what i am.’_

“Ghost it is, then.” Quirrel reached over and picked up the tube of acid writing. “I’ll help you with whatever you need, little Ghost. It’s the least I can do.” The fact he had no choice stayed unsaid as he peered inside. “However… This is an account of aspid husbandry.”

\---

In the end, none of the acid contained anything useful. It took Quirrel pointing out that the Archive contained every ounce of the kingdom’s knowledge, and that finding exactly what you wanted by snatching tubes up at random was extremely unlikely, for Ghost to finally divulge exactly what they wanted to learn.

“My friend, the King had all records of the vessel-making process destroyed.” Quirrel said, placing aside a tube that contained nothing more than a very detailed description of Uun. “The madam… Disobeyed Him, in a way. She never touched the backup records, but you cannot find them by simply sweeping the shelves. There were parts of the facility unknown even to Him, you see.” He stoked the fire with the end of the spear, thinking. “However, she gave me access to them. We can go there.”

He felt his body start to move despite himself, Ghost picking them up to leave already. Quirrel forced his legs to buckle, dumping the two of them back onto the ground. _“Wait!”_

They huffed in annoyance through his mouth, spluttering. _“Whhn.” _

“I need to sleep again, Ghost. We can’t travel exhausted.” They didn’t respond, so he busied himself with adding fuel to the fire. “I’m afraid I have to set some rules. I _do not_ appreciate waking up somewhere different, so you must stay put right here. _Do not get up and start walking.”_ A couple more pieces of wood washed up as he spoke. “Thank you. Sleep serves to rejuvenate the body as well as the mind, so stay off my ankle and let it recover. Keep the fire burning, and if you feel the need to entertain yourself at least wait until I’m asleep.”

No response. “I need you to agree.”

They picked up the quill with his hand and wrote once more. _‘understood.’_

\---

Quirrel slept curled in a tight ball of legs and chitin that Ghost couldn’t move from if they tried.

And they _did_ try. Waiting for a full night’s sleep to go by turned out to be exceedingly boring.

They could have jumped into whatever dream started Quirrel muttering and giggling _(“My Lady! What _would_ the nobles say?”)_, of course, but that would that leave the both of them dangerously cut off from the outside world.

And, despite their best efforts, eventually a chill crept in past the dying fire. Ghost didn’t understand how this could have happened, for they had been tending the fire very well; Stacking larger and larger chunks of void-black wood on top when it started to go low. However, all this achieved, to their shock, was killing the flames even faster.

They dug into the sea in earnest, grabbing the first piece of fabric they found and hauling it to the beach. Producing the driest pair of tendrils they could manage, Ghost wrung every drop of void from the sheet; Suppressing a wince as the metal rings that once attached it to a wall somewhere clattered noisily.

Carefully, they touched the fabric to their shell.

It didn’t burn.

With a gentle touch they laid the sheet over themselves, tucking it under and around Quirrel’s shell as quietly as they could manage.

The bug shifted then. He uncurled to grab two handfuls of the fabric and pulled it tighter, hugging a bunch to his chest with a drowsy murmur of appreciation.

They could wait. Ghost decided, as they dug back into the sea for a pillow. They could wait however long they needed to.

\---

By the time Quirrel awoke, Ghost had successfully piled what appeared to be all the bedding in Hallownest over them.

And because of that the first thing out of his mouth was not a traditional “Good morning”, but instead “Why am I hugging a curtain?”

They shrugged his shoulders. _“Dnno.”_

“Fair enough.” Quirrel started to dig his way out, aided by the tendrils peeling away layers of black and dusty fabrics. He popped out by the corpse of the fire, piled with things too large to burn until it reached higher than his head. The sight made him laugh good-naturedly, “That explains the blankets. It’s certainly no warmer out here.” His bag and the spear laid nearby, where Quirrel sat back down and started to help himself to more food and water.

Ah, but he didn’t need to eat his _own_ food, for Ghost had sourced meat from the sea.

They weren’t sure what it used to be, for the void had eaten it into a chunky, gooey mass, but they were vaguely aware of something called _‘soup’_, where bugs ate their meat as liquid, and while they had never seen the stuff before, it fit the description.

They were vaguely aware of a lot of things, even before they became self-aware, they knew what ‘stuff’ was. Their journey would have ended fast if they couldn’t grapple with the concept of a map, after all.

_“Moornin.”_ Ghost intoned as Quirrel stared at the food they’d deposited directly into his hands. _“Soop.”_

“… Morning to you too.” Quirrel peered down at the soup as it oozed between his fingers. “I… Can’t eat this… It’s very kind of you but… It’s not… Ah… _Breakfast food_.” He cleared his throat as the main bulk of it slipped between his palms and onto the floor, “I could never eat something so… Um, so _big_ so early, you see.”

That was fair, they supposed, dragging the soup back into the sea with a smear; They didn't know the ways of bugs and breakfast. 

Quirrel relaxed a little as he wiped his hands and inserted a brittle chunk of hardtack under his mask, where a small pair of limb-like appendages grabbed hold and pulled it into his mouth. “You’re more talkative today.”

The parchment found itself shoved back onto his lap, Ghost using a tendril for some messy hands-free writing.

_‘trying some words’_

“Ah, very good.” Quirrel finished up quickly, standing and slinging the bag around his shoulders. “You can practise as much as you want while we walk.” He stood, squinting around the cavern for a moment. “I see mushrooms… Am I right to assume there’s an entrance to the Fungal Wastes nearby?”

_“Funnal wases,”_ Ghost echoed. _“Yea.”_

They set forth in the right direction, then stopped. Should they be walking? It was Quirrel’s body, not theirs. They shouldn’t overstep. They could lead him along again, but with things cleared up it felt a bit silly to string him forwards like an animal.

“It’s fine.” Quirrel said, making them wonder if he could feel their hesitance. “Go ahead, I don’t know the way.”

Slowly, they started to walk, thankful that the ever-shifting piles of junk had moved enough for them to simply climb a hill if they wanted to get back into the waterways.

They decided to try the exit that let out under the Mantis Village first. The rope of void still hung from their spectral arm uselessly, they would cut it off when they got far enough away and allow the tentacles to do as they wished again.

As they entered the pipes a strange, musky funk hit them, which only strengthened as they walked until the very air was thick with it. It was, for lack of a better word, repellent; Reminding them of the chocking taste of the affliction, rich with waste and suffering.

Quirrel smelt it too. “Oh wyrm, what is that _smell_?”

“That smell!” Cried a jovial, booming voice from above, “Is the proud odour of the _just_!”

From a gap in the ceiling, Ogrim dropped. He looked different to the last time Ghost saw him, now wearing a proud red sash over his chest. “Why, are my eyes deceiving me?” He crouched to Quirrel’s level, throwing out a great waft of stink. “The Teacher’s assistant! I wasn’t aware you still lived, and to find you here of all places, how absurd.”

Taking a few steps back; Ghost raised the spear, calculating. Not great quarters for a fight, but without the piles of weird mud Ogrim treasured so much, they would have an advantage.

They could slip behind him with a shadow dash, or perhaps they could figure out Quirrel’s warp, even hobbled as they were, they could easily lose him in the tunnels and-

Quirrel forced the tip of the spear to the ground, consciously loosening his coiled muscles. “No,” He muttered, with finality.

In their excitement, a thin trail of void had slipped from the joints of his fingers and down the spear, Quirrel flicking it away with a mumble of pain.

As this happened, the great bug moved closer, Ghost slipping their arm behind Quirrel’s back, their friend moving in sync to keep it out of Ogrim’s sight. Having shut down their only avenue of escape, Quirrel said, “Ah, yes. Hello again… Sir.” Giving absolutely no indication he recognised the bug before him.

“Haha! No need to be so formal now!” Ogrim crowed, “While I am indeed a knight once more, I am a knight of the people! Serving not a king, but the kingdom itself. In fact, I’m here to investigate the strange goings on in these tunnels, they say these tentacles lash the city above!” He poked at one of the tendrils lining the walls, watching as it withdrew from his hand before it could burn him with a hum of thought, before stopping. “… And what are _you_ doing in these tunnels, friend?” The old knight asked.

Quirrel blinked. “Oh, we simply wondered in here by accident,” He lied smoothly, “The tendrils really were attacking the city, I saw it myself. But, as they’ve come to a rest now, we’re taking the opportunity to leave.”

“’We’?” Ogrim peered around the corridor. “My friend, we’re alone down here.”

_“Ah.”_ Quirrel spluttered “I… Meant the _royal_ ‘we’. You see. I… We’re simply trying it out."

“Oh ho!” Ogrim slapped one large hand on Quirrel’s back, not noticing as his fingers phased directly through Ghost’s arm.

They suppressed a shiver as he left a splat of something warm and sticky which oozed through the joints of their shell. “A bit of personal introspection, eh? No need to be embarrassed!”

“Yes… Thank you.” Quirrel said, seeming increasingly uncomfortable. “I’m afraid- “

_“Wwe”_ Ghost hissed.

_“-We’re_ afraid we must be going.” He went on, gritting his mandibles.

“I understand.” Ogrim boomed, “Where are you heading? I’ll escort you there; These tunnels are no place to be lost!”

“No need,” Quirrel said hurridly, “We know our way.”

“I insist!” Ogrim insisted, insistently; Absolutely refusing to take no for an answer. “Put away your weapon, my friend. _I_ will protect you!”

As Quirrel begrudgingly tied the spear to his pack and told the dung beetle where they were heading (“Ah! That’s just above us!” _“We know.”_), Ghost started to inconspicuously withdraw their arm into his shell until all that was left was their hand and the rope of void, protruding from underneath Quirrel’s bag. That, too, they did their best to hide: Attaching it to the tendrils covering the walls, keeping it shadowed and unnoticeable.

As Ogrim lead them along, Quirrel trailed behind, keeping his back hidden as much as possible.

The knight spoke about anything and everything, he told them that he had been sent down many hours ago but had decided to search the city top-to-bottom first, as a true knight leaves no stone unturned. He spoke of Hornet, of her restoration efforts and the challenges they faced, of her firmly staking her claim to leadership and sticking to her promises until bugs flooded to her.

Ghost wished they had been there to see it.

Ogrim had an apprentice, they discovered, as the exit loomed before them; The rotten smell of the Fungal Wastes positively sweet compared to the ‘heroic stench’ of the knight.

A knight from before the fall, he said. Diminished by the infection but still full of promise.

He spoke of them only briefly, yet proudly. In a way that gave the impression that Ogrim already expected Quirrel to know the bug in question.

Perhaps Quirrel realised this too, or perhaps he was just confused, for he turned to the knight and said “I’m sorry, Sir Knight, but before the infection… Did we know each other? You knew who I am, and you’re speaking… Too freely for a stranger.”

That last point wasn’t true, in Ghost’s opinion, since Ogrim spoke a lot.

The knight stopped walking, turning around in confusion. “Yes? We knew each other in passing. You came to the palace quite often; Nearly always on the arm of the Teacher, but sometimes on your own duties… We would chat whenever we saw each other.” He bent to look Quirrel in the eyes, head tilting. “Oh,” Ogrim’s voice turned sad. “But you went to the wastelands, didn’t you? When you stole the Teacher’s mask. And that dust… Does terrible things to the minds of bugs.” He sighed, straightening again. “I’m sorry for the confusion, old friend. It’s rare to see a bug from the glory days, and I suppose I let my nostalgia cloud my judgement for a moment. Forgive me, it’s clear you didn’t recognise me.”

“It’s okay.” Quirrel said appealingly, “It’s been happening quite often lately. It seems I became rather well known after I left Hallownest.”

“Ha! Indeed! There was quite the manhunt, the King was furious, and absolutely intent on getting the Teacher’s mask back!” He cleared his throat, “Ah, but I’m getting away from myself. Let’s try again, shall we?” The knight wiped one hand on his sash, leaving a thick streak of grime. Then he offered it to shake. “Ogrim, the Defender.”

Quirrel gasped, taking the hand without hesitation. “One of the great knights?”

“The very same!” Ogrim laughed, “Now you, my friend.”

“Quirrel.” He said, “Just Quirrel.”

“It’s good to meet you again, Quirrel.” Ogrim said, releasing his hand. “When you’re done down here, meet me in Dirtmouth. I’ll reintroduce you to my apprentice, and perhaps we can have tea?”

Quirrel’s smile felt genuine. “We’ll see. I think I’d like that.”

Getting to know each other through a heartfelt moment was all well and good, but Ghost could see the state of the Dashmaster from where they were standing, and sooner rather than later if they wanted to move on, they needed to sever their connection and allow the void to run wild once again.

They tapped the handful of void against Quirrel’s back three times, feeling it prickle sharply. He jumped and turned around to face the tunnel behind them; So, Ghost allowed the tendrils to creep forwards, reaching out and around the entrance like fingers, shifting and rustling restlessly.

Ogrim noticed it too. “Oh, that doesn’t look good.”

“No,” Quirrel said, quietly tapping his hand three times against his leg. “It doesn’t.”

A recognition of their message? Or simply an unconscious movement? It didn’t matter, for Ghost took a few steps back, tensed, ready to run, Quirrel grabbing Ogrim’s arm and pulling him away with them; Before they dropped the rope and withdrew their hand fully into Quirrel’s shell.

Nothing happened for a few long seconds.

Then, the tunnel exploded with black; The tentacles lashing outwards with an energy that bordered on pure fury.

The Defender reacted before either of them, befitting his title; He swept Quirrel up against his chest with a wet thud and a yelp, the brown on his shell smearing between them to reveal white underneath.

The tendrils spilt like worms from the tunnel, it constricted them and limited their range, but they still stretched far, almost chasing them up through the wastes until the trio reached the Mantis Village. There, they could see them flailing a few platforms below, constantly dipping and burning within the pools of acid surrounding them until there wasn’t enough void left inside them to reach further.

The mantis guarding the village inclined her head towards Ogrim respectfully, before pointing a single claw at Quirrel. “You are honoured, Knight of Hallownest, but your companion is not. They may not travel within.”

“We part ways here, it seems.” The knight placed Quirrel back onto his feet with ease. “I must speak with the Mantis Lords about the invasion of these tentacles. The Lady Hornet has negotiated a truce between our new Hallownest and the tribe, and I seek to strengthen it.” He pointed upwards, “The Queen’s Station isn’t far, and a handful of stags still live. By the terms of the truce, the warriors shouldn’t impede your way.”

“… Thank you.” Quirrel’s shell itched, Ogrim’s grime drying quickly within his joints. “We’re on our way to the Archive, I’ve- We’ve never forgotten the route.”

“Very good! Goodbye, Quirrel. I’ll see you in Dirthmouth.” With one final waft of odour, he turned and swept past the mantis guard, turning once more to wave cheerfully before disappearing through the gates to the village.

Fully recovered from being snatched off his feet, Quirrel called “Goodbye!” After him, returning the wave with one of his own.

_“Goomby.”_ Ghost echoed once the knight was out of earshot.

At that, the mantis turned suspicious eyes on them. “Don’t linger, Interloper. The Archive is a day of travel from here, and we will not allow you to sleep within our borders.”

“Never fear, Warrior.” Quirrel replied with ease, “We don’t intend to stick around.”

She cocked her head. _“’We’?” _ The mantis asked, “You are alone, Interloper.”

But Quirrel had already hurried out of the chamber the moment he realised his mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray, commuincation has been reached! It only took...  
*Squints at smudged writing on hand*  
FOUR CHAPTERS  
We got some ground rules and a plan, I'm sure things will continue to go nice and smoothly :3 Also Ogrim's here now. Good thing the big guy hasn't recieved any news for a while!  
I'm afraid there are some formatting issues in here that I struggled to fix, so apologies if you come across any.  
As always, please review! I read and appreciate every single one, even if I don't respond to all :D


	6. Slapstick

Ogrim’s smell lingered all the way to the Queen’s Station.

And of course it did. Quirrel did his best to scrape off the grime, but nothing less than a bath and a good scrub could loosen it from the crevices of his shell.

And he was far from any hot spring.

There were more bugs to be found in the upper tunnels now, and Quirrel avoided them as best he could, trying to evade any awkwardness as he ran Ghost through simple words.

He preferred to take his chances with the mushroom creatures, lest someone ask why he was teaching _himself_ how to say things such as “yes”, “no”, “please” and “thank you.”

Once they had a good grasp, he taught them a few other things as well, the geography of the area was something he remembered reasonably well, and he pointed out the few edible mushrooms he could reliably identify; Although he stopped short at actually _eating_ them.

The station no longer stood as the hub from Quirrel’s faded memories, where the sound of the crowds echoed far into the chambers beyond and the bells never stopped ringing, but many more bugs lingered there since his last visit.

They had set up a small settlement. Serviced by the single operational platform, the rest having been converted into ramshackle buildings and short streets, which extended into the unused sections of the stag tunnels. The wild greenery had been cut back and tamed, even replanted and replaced in some spots with ornamental or medicinal plants.

A wooden sign welcomed him in, the different arrows coming off it not only pointing to the various sections of the little village, but also into Fog Canyon beyond.

He could pass right through if he wanted, and yet Quirrel found pause. He wanted to see how the station had changed.

Surely, he could afford to restock? The sign pointed to an inn, and a small store caught his eye from across the street. Nothing would be lost if he had a look around.

All of a sudden, his Geo weighed heavily against his back. “Ghost?” He murmured, not even flinching has his own body stood up straighter in attention. “Before this, did you ever eat before?”

_“Nno.”_ They said.

Well, that settled it. “Jerky and biscuits are good for the road, but they don’t compare to fresh food.” He lowered his voice as he stepped into the village limits. “We’ll stop here for a bit. Wash up, have a real meal. We can sleep when we reach the Archive.”

_“Arrcive. Food! Yes.”_ Ghost muttered back.

They seemed rather keen on the prospect of eating. Quirrel could almost _feel_ his mouth starting to water.

It… _Burnt_.

“Augh!” Quirrel found himself spitting dark globs into the grass. “Ghost! Don’t do that!”

They gasped, scrambling to pull the waterskin from his bag._ “Aah! Ssorry! Ke- Keen. Iyt… It bil- Bui-ld-s up. Leeks. Leeks out.”_

“Can you control it?” Quirrel asked, after swilling the water around his mouth and spitting it out. “Someone’s going to get injured, and it may not be me.”

No matter how much he spat, it came out diluted grey.

_“I cn- Can try.”_ They wavered.

\---

A small beetle stood with her back to them as they entered the inn. She was cleaning a table, humming a little tune to herself. A waitress, Quirrel assumed.

A bell rang over the door as they entered, causing her to turn with a bright smile and a greeting on her jaws.

Her words died before they so much as crossed her mandibles. The beetle took one look at him and squealed in alarm, eyes wide in something bordering panic, she dropped the wet rag she was using to wipe down the table and with buzzing wings vaulted the counter, disappearing into the backroom with the slam of a door.

“Oh.” Quirrel could hear hurried talking from behind the door, and as he approached, it opened a crack, and a second beetle slid out.

He almost jumped as he spotted Quirrel standing so close at the other side of the counter, eyes wide in something approaching shock for a moment before his face crumpled as the smell hit him. He was one of the few species that could afford to go maskless; Quirrel could barely imagine how bad the smell was to one with their face uncovered, for the bug took a few uneasy steps back as he stepped up to the counter.

For a second, he almost worried the bug recognised him somehow, he had been getting that too much lately, it was always so awkward to explain. But they said nothing; Just stared at him and his filthy state.

Probably a new hire then, Quirrel thought, he wasn’t sure what he’d do in this situation either.

“Hello,” He said, squeezing as much friendliness into his voice as possible to put the beetle at ease, “Sorry to bother you, but would I be able to wash here?”

“Oh, um, yeah. You can use one of the rooms.” The beetle pointed down a corridor, eyes darting. “You’ll have to pay up front, though. It’s, uh, policy.”

“Of course.” Quirrel said, fishing a Geo pouch from his bag. “How much?”

“100.” The beetle’s palpable nervousness was bleeding over and making Quirrel feel uneasy as he handed over the money. “Just wait here for a few minutes while I…” He paused, “… Put a washbasin out.”

“Okay.” Quirrel shrugged, taking a seat at the bar. “I’ve waited this long.” He also felt pretty committed to this course of action; A bit of unease wasn't enough to make him turn tail from an _inn,_ of all places, if that were the case he would have died on the road years ago.

The innkeep nodded and slipped back out through the door behind the bar, re-joining his employee and disappearing elsewhere in the building.

Ghost waited a few seconds before practically hauling him halfway over the counter. _“Food.”_

“Hey! No.” Quirrel dragged himself back into his seat. “We have to buy the food, we can’t just take it.”

_“Pay… Aft-er?”_ They reached over again, patting around until they found what felt like the handle to a coldbox. _“In heh- here.”_

“Ghost.” Quirrel said, warningly. Betraying even himself, he didn’t stop them this time.

They turned the handle. “Ghost, don’t. We’ll get in trouble.”

_“The- they lef’ buh- buiidin’. Won’ note-ice.” _Ghost pulled an entire chilled vengefly from under the counter. _“Food!”_

“Is that what you _want_ to eat or is it just the first thing you found?” Quirrel asked, giving up on stopping them from poking around. “Wait. They left the building?”

They either ignored or missed the second question, saying, _“Want it. Vengefly. Saw it… Dirtmowth.”_

“Ah, in the market. Of course.” Quirrel let his gaze wander the room aimlessly. “Did you take us through there on the way to the City of Tears?”

_“Yesh”_ Only a slight lisp this time, they were learning very quickly. Part of Quirrel wondered if their progress would be slowed if he didn’t talk as much.

The hinges of the door behind the bar creaked. “Wyrm knows how you even got into the city, I was under the impression it was restricted.”

_“Illegally.”_ Came the answer, perfectly pronounced.

What. “What?”

“Hey?” The innkeeper called, wary eyes peering from around the door. “Is there someone else in here with you?”

“Ah, no, sorry. I was just collecting my thoughts.” Quirrel cleared his throat as he tried to think of a good excuse. “I lost my journal.”

“Oh.” The bug peered at him, face knitting into an unusual expression. “So, you’ve decided to journal… To the plants?”

He also really, really needed to stop getting caught out like that. “… Yes. I hear it’s good for them.”

The beetle didn’t believe him, emotion easy to read off his bare face. “… Suit yourself. I… It’ll be another minute or two, I’m afraid.”

“That’s absolutely fine.” Quirrel assured him.

The beetle nodded mutely and disappeared again.

Alone once more, he idly gazed around the room, letting his bag drop by his feet. There were no menus, no signs, no servers; For the waitress hadn’t returned. He remembered going to restaurants in the city with all that and more, he even worked in a few as a student, before his apprenticeship came through, serving up tiny portions to rude guests.

_Where _had_ that waitress gone, anyway?_

Monomon always found it charming, how much he hated being waited on. On the rare occasions she found time to leave the Archives, she would find excuses to visit smaller establishments, family run cafes or tea rooms where the atmosphere was loose, and you would stand and carry your own drinks to your table.

Of course, he _always_ served her tea to her.

Ghost huffed and shifted with restless boredom, something he wasn't used to seeing from them. _“Mm… Gonna, fl- follow them.”_

“No, we’re not. I’m not moving.” Quirrel said.

_“Don’ neh- need to.”_ Within seconds Quirrel was suddenly, intimately aware as to what the backroom looked like.

Fascinating.

_It made sense_, he supposed, _that if the little wanderer could use his senses, then he could also use theirs._

There was nobody in there, though, so they tracked slowly through the rooms.

As they stretched further, Quirrel felt that uncomfortable feeling behind his eyes that had sat since he’d woken in the city spike into something heavy and pounding. He couldn’t help but bring his hands to his forehead, muttering a sharp “Ow.”

Immediately, the visions of the adjoining rooms faded, Ghost shoving one of his own hands under his mask, trying and failing to locate the source of the ache. _“Hurt?”_

“No, it’s just a little headache, it’ll go.” He’d had this headache the whole time, hadn’t he? Yet before he barely noticed the pain, it was so faint.

Perhaps the exertions of the days before were catching up again. He still felt so tired, even after the full night of sleep by the void sea.

Was he unable to rest properly unless the Ghost did too? Were they even capable of sleep?

Quirrel drained the last of his water in a few gulps. “I’m hungry.” He said, only partially lying. The rations he’d packed were more than filling, but it would be remiss to go without trying the local food, and his little friend deserved something with flavour.

The vengefly sat cold and raw by his hands. He had seen a simple kitchen somewhere in the building when Ghost scattered their senses, he assumed the beetle would be perfectly willing to cook it for them once he got back; The benefits of a hot meal after time on the road could not be understated.

And it would be a lie to say he wasn’t curious about this little village in the middle of a station. What kind of bugs lived here? He really wished the innkeep would return soon so he could get cleaned up and settle down for a nice hot meal, the wait was making him twitchy and the grime in his joints itched and stank in equal measure.

Something crashed outside.

Quirrel whirled in his chair, but there were no windows visible from where he sat, just a noticeboard by the door that he’d missed in the way in.

It pulled his attention for a moment and he squinted at it, forgetting the noise as soon as it faded. Why would a village be quiet?

“That’s strange,” He said, a worm of anxiety making its way through his gut, “… The bug on that wanted poster looks just like me.”

Ghost went rigid, a breath hissing between his mandibles as they slowly reached down and shouldered his bag, stuffing the vangefly in as they went, eyes not straying from the poster. _“… Ooooh… Weh- We sshould go.”_ Their voice came out an octave too high, fear radiating from their words.

Oh no.

The anxiety bloomed into a full-blown feeling of panic. “… Ghost, what did you do?”

He leapt off his chair as more noises came from nearby, recognisable now as shifting armour and weapons issuing from just outside, crying “Ghost! What did you _do_?”

_The innkeeper wasn’t preparing anything for him,_ Quirrel realized, a sense of dread blooming within his mind. _The beetle had taken his Geo and ran for the guards._

Ghost spat their senses out and for a moment he saw a headache-inducing flash of the exterior of the building. Fully armoured bugs waited by the door, tense and ready to move. A snatch of speech, a countdown.

“We have to move!” Quirrel gasped, alarm jolting through him.

_But where could they go?_

The words had barely left his mouth before the door slammed open and the guards poured in, weapons drawn and pointed.

The one leading the pack yelled at him to put his hands up and in the shock of the moment Quirrel obliged, taking a step back and raising them above his head.

He swallowed, taking stock as fast as he could as the leading guard advanced on him, weapon raised, calling for him to get on the floor.

He counted four. He could deal with four.

But perhaps he could talk his way out of it before jumping directly to resisting arrest. “What-”

He didn't get far with his sentance as Ghost, disagreeing, tugged him into a power struggle, their words mixing and tripping wildly with his.

_ “Run!”_

“What seems to be-”

_“Run!!”_

“- The problem, offi-”

_“RUN!”_

“-Cer?” Okay, he didn’t even need to see their faces to know they definitely thought he was insane.

It didn’t help that he was having to forcefully _stop_ Ghost from reaching for the spear, his arm twitching in the air by his ear.

“- Right. Never mind.” Quirrel _ran_.

He dodged around the approaching officer and in a heady burst of speed and adrenaline that made him feel almost faint broke into a sprint _towards the guards_, ignoring the calls to stop and the weapons levelled towards him. “Ghost! How ‘illegal’ of an entry _was_ this?”

He vaulted a spear, planting his feet firmly into someone’s armoured face as he went, he felt Ghost’s panic materialise in sharp drops of void that splashed into the other guards like a spray of needles as he moved. Quirrel ducked a grab, tucked fully into his shell and rolled, smashing into someone’s legs and using the door as a chokepoint to restrict the movements of the guards after him.

The momentum of the roll carried him back onto his feet as he sprinted back through the village.

_“Very!”_ They shouted over the chaotic sounds of the guards giving chase.

“Oh my- Ghost, you can’t get me in trouble with the law and _not tell me_!” Quirrel glanced behind him, only two had made it out the door but he knew the others wouldn’t be far behind. His breath heaved, he was already tired. “Fine, a bit of breaking and entry I can put up with, but when we’re done you are coming _right_ with me to clear my name, okay?”

They wheezed out an affirmative noise, and, legs burning, he realised he couldn’t keep running much longer.

Fine, he would have to cheat.

He drew on his soul. Warping without being able to see your endpoint wasn’t a smart move, but the layout of the station was burnt into his mind and really, how different could it be?

Quirrel pictured the level above, glanced behind as he started to cast only to see _six_ guards chasing him. Two more than before, how had he missed them on the way in? The village was tiny!

_I’ve never run from this many guards before,_ Quirrel thought, as he executed the spell and, in a blur, reappeared above without breaking his stride.

He turned his eyes forwards just in time to catch only the slightest glimpse of a solid wall looming mere centimetres from his face before smashing directly into black.

\---

Ogrim and the Mantis Lords stood together, conversing quietly.

Outside the chamber, a messengerbug did her best of collect herself under the reproachful gaze of the warrior that lead her in. She was the only one capable to delivering this message. A message of extreme importance that could not, under any circumstances, wait.

Yet one thing held her back; Her impeccable sense of smell. She was capable of tracking any bug, anywhere, anytime. Her job was to get messages to people the sender didn’t know the location of by following their scent through the tunnels.

And for once she really wished she’d refused. The Fungal Wastes stank like death, and the growing smell of the Defender made her gag, clutching the scroll entrusted to her to her chest. She needed to get over it, fast, but oh, he smelt like a rotten, backed up drain.

The mantis took a breath that rattled deep in their throat.

Right. The messengerbug couldn’t stay there forever, the mantis had already made clear that they were barely tolerating her presence.

She took a deep breath that only made her retch a little, and stepped inside.

“Defender, sir?”

The three lords turned as one, their gazes intimidating and harsh.

The Defender, on the other hand, spotted her scroll immediately; Perking up and crossing the gap between them with only a few steps and a sweeping waft that made her fight down her gag reflex. “A messenger! Do they require me back already?”

“No sir, I’m afraid there’s been a development.” She unfurled her scroll with practised ease. “A bug with the same… Power as those tendrils attacked a pair of guards less than two days ago, seriously injuring one and breaking into the city. It’s thought they may be responsible for the recent rise in activity down there. Our Lady Hornet has already been informed, she and your apprentice are on their way to the Queen’s Station village, you are to meet them there.”

“That’s unusual.” The Defender scratched his chin. “I searched the city from top to bottom and I didn’t see anyone, except- Hm, well, it doesn’t matter. Do you have a description of this scoundrel?”

“Yes, sir.” She said, not questioning his odd choice of words; Turning back to the writing in front of her. “Some kind of isopod,” she read, noticing as he stiffened, subtlety. “Round, plain mask, blue shell with an unusual curve, some kind of cloth hat.” She curled the scroll back up and handed it over. “It’s not much to go on, but we have already sent word out to the local settlements.” She coughed awkwardly. “… It may not be my place to say, but I’d advise you to be careful, sir. I saw the guard as they bought her through to the hot spring, and she was covered in that terrible black stuff. It had eaten through her shell like acid, sir.”

The Defender’s jovial mannerisms had seemingly dried up as he reread the scroll. “Will the guard recover?” His voice had turned tight, angry, and the parchment beneath his hands looked ready to tear.

“Yes, sir. They got to her in time.” The messengerbug gulped, the tension in the room weighing hard on her shell. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, are you okay?”

“Yes. It merely seems I’ve been made a fool.” With that, he bowed to the three lords, who returned the favour, and swept curly out of the chamber.

As the Mantis Lords turned their eyes on her, the messenger scurried after him.

\---

Ghost was surprised that Quirrel’s successful headbutt of the wall didn’t knock _them_ unconscious too.

It hurt horrendously and knocked their senses askew to the point where they couldn’t figure out exactly when or how they had hit the ground.

But they couldn’t rest, they could hear yelling from below over the ringing of their ears; The crash of Quirrel-on-wall violence and the shouting of the bugs that had witnessed the whole thing alerting the guards easily to their new location.

They rolled back onto shaking limbs, everything felt misaligned and weak but they still had to _move_. They sat crouched, the world swam too much to stand but they could recall how the warping spell went.

They only needed to see it once or twice to excecute it themselves.

Encroaching footsteps shook the ground beneath their borrowed hands and knees. They craned their neck, forced the exit to the village to come into focus and _pushed_, a ripple of soul issuing from their body as they reappeared up and out of sight, elbows giving out upon landing and dropping them face-down on some grassy verge.

They waited there until they realized no one was coming; They waited there until they realized that they really _had_ lost the guards, finally allowing themselves the energy to stumble upright and wobble unevenly away from town.

Quirrel had forebode them from wandering around while he was sleeping, but they believed he would appreciate the urgency of the situation. As it was, they really wanted to lie down anyway, so they only walked until they could no longer hear the movements of the bugs below and promptly piled themselves into the first hiding place they could see.

A plant.

Surrounded by leaves, they felt like a mosscreep.

If anyone came past, they decided they would squeak like one in order to fool them into thinking that they were absolutely nothing more than an unassuming moss creature.

Ghost realised they should probably practice.

They peeped, and squeaked, and peeped some more until the fuzz in their brain wore off enough for them to realise that what they were doing was really stupid, actually, and they should stop before they were caught.

So, they just… Sat.

They sat and dozed for a while until they stopped feeling dizzy and weird and blurry, the world slowly blooming back into sense and focus until Ghost realized, wow, they almost got arrested then and there. _Huh._

They felt bad about it. _Truly_ bad, actually, and a little sad. They had been revelling in their new experiences of emotion but this one they’d rather miss. It made them feel thick and rotten inside.

Quirrel really wanted to stop for a rest and a wash and a well-earned meal. They wanted him to get that too, he deserved it! They felt nasty, and grubby and stinky and they were sure he did too, but instead all they’d done was drop him into a dangerous situation without even realizing.

But in hindsight, it felt so obvious. They _should_ have known about it. They were the cause!

And a good enough hit in the face was enough to kill a bug.

They knew that, they had _done_ that; Ghost could feel his mind shifting in a strange un-sleep but they couldn’t help but wonder what if?

_What if? _

_They were almost the death of him._

A feeling of guilt weighed through them. Why _didn’t_ they realize he’d be the one in trouble? They didn’t even stop to consider, they just acted.

Their feelings didn't have time to stew and spiral any more, as Quirrel awoke before they could feel any worse.

“What… Happened?” He mumbled, adding “Am I in a tree?” As he shifted to get his bearings a little.

They straightened, pushing the guilt down where it wouldn’t bother them. He was fine, it was all fine, they were well on the way to putting things right.

_“Bush.”_ Ghost said. Their voice was flat, they hadn’t got the grasp of emoting through it yet, but they tried to bring through some positivity. _“Es-caped!”_

He rolled upright. Oh, they’d been upside down the whole time. “Well. That’s good. But _why_ am I in a bush?”

_“Hit wall.”_ They shrugged, not entirely sure how he’d managed it in the first place. _“Harrd.”_

“Oh. Ow.” He rubbed his head, “That explains the headache, and the dizziness, and the… General … Tingling? I’m not thinking straight. Where _are_ we?”

They didn’t… Actually know.

The memory of the escape had laid patchy in in their mind, probably on account of the head injury, empty splotches cutting it into short ribbons of action.

How strange, not only were their perceptions tied to the physical now, but so was their memory. Ghost privately hoped none of their other facilities were getting fleshy and buggy. They wanted their experience of the world to keep making sense, not go through a filter of weird… Squishes.

_How would they tell if it had already happened?_

Ghost realised they had been silent for too long. _“Dnno.”_

“Okay,” He said, “That’s not ideal. Give me a few minutes, I need to… Try and self-diagnose to see if we’ve got a concussion or not…”

He stuck his head out of the bush. The scenery of the Fog Canyon stared back at them.

“Oh, good. Okay, balance…” Quirrel stepped carefully out of the bush, the world no longer spinning under his feet. “No big problem there. Eyesight, perfect, like always… Hearing, working.” He cleared his throat. “Apart from the headache, I think we’re okay. In fact, _despite what just happened_,” Ghost winced, he’d really grit his mandibles for that one, “- We’re better than okay.”

“Because I can get to the Archive from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so an esteemed scholar, a possessed anmesiac and the reanimated corpse of a child turned eldritch god walk into a bar...  
...  
... Yeah I can't think of a good punchline either.
> 
> Things get a bit wild, for the secret is out! Outside help isn't avalible, Ogrim's kinda pissed, Quirrel still needs a bath and we're FINALLY heading into the Archives!  
Can I get a wha-hoo for plot progression  
Also I can't believe I've finally managed to use that time I knocked myself unconcious for something constructive. Writing from experience for the win.
> 
> Thank you for reviewing! Every message I get encourages me even more!


	7. The Magic of the Archives

The Archives had secret passages upon secret passages, branching into hidden rooms and workshops. Quirrel knew them by heart, of course, although he could never recall the routes until he set foot back inside.

Somewhere within the maze where the parts of Monomon’s chambers that the regular Archive bugs never knew about.

There, she did work the King would never approve of.

There, she archived knowledge He wanted destroyed, and he was the only bug that knew. She always trusted him, and why wouldn’t she? He’d proved his loyalty in a hundred different ways, and she’d done the same right back.

Each step felt like a step further into memory. He had walked these passages when the little Wanderer first stepped in. They had led him to their fight with Uumuu, and then further still to the Teacher’s resting place. But only when he saw her did he truly remember _why_ he was there.

_She was guiding him then,_ he reflected, _but his mind was not occupied by her anyone._

Ghost would reach out, occasionally, and grab something to look at. Scraps of waver-silk parchment, long dead creatures preserved in ethanol, and slate tablets covered in writing were all cause for pause.

They grabbed one such slate, scanned the writing only to find it in runes, and placed it back where they found it with little care and a quiet huff of disappointment.

Before Quirrel could even interject to read it, the misplaced slate slipped off the shelf and smashed on the metal floor with a clatter that echoed through the halls of the Archive like an explosion. They both jumped, heart skipping a beat, and Quirrel felt his limbs lock as they both panicked in different directions, barely managing to stay balanced.

As the echoes subsided, Quirrel took a steadying breath. Ghost, on the other hand, pointed to the broken slate with an apologetic _“Ooop.”_

Quirrel chuckled, “Don’t worry,” he said, crouching down and fixing his gaze on the slate. “Watch this!”

As he spoke, the broken edges of the stone tablet started to glow a faint, pale green. Soul, absorbed directly from the air leaked from the breaks like a liquid, stretching out between the shattered pieces and pulling them together with a faint scraping against the floor, rebuilding anything lost in the smash out of pure energy with nothing more than a wet hiss as the soul evaporated back into the air, leaving unblemished stone behind.

Quirrel picked up the slate again, turning it in his hands to see that it was whole. “My Lady wasn’t simply an archivist, my friend. The King didn’t just seek her out for her mind, although I’m sure that contributed,” He wouldn’t be caught dead suggesting she _wasn’t_ a genius, after all. “She was a polymath, an expert in all fields, especially magic!”

The Teacher’s chambers stretched out before them, unblemished by the touch of time. “She could preserve _anything_.” His words tripped over each other in excitement. “No specimen under her care ever degraded, no word in her collection ever faded!”

Where the tablet had broken, no writing remained. “Well, it doesn’t work on everything,” He said, “Spilt acid and erased words can never be rewritten other than by hand, but a chipped case or a snapped slate will fix in an instant, and the words themselves won’t disappear unless someone gets rid of them.” He ran his thumb over the remaining text, smudging it.

Quirrel placed the slate back where they found it, before sweeping a jar off a different shelf, containing the preserved body of a beast he had never seen before. “Before the end, we were working on a version that would fix biological specimens such as this instead of simply preventing degradation! It was difficult, as they had a tendency to reanimate… But without any soul of their own they soon shrivelled again.” He paused. “… And then promptly reanimated once more, as I said, it was a work in progress.”

He shelved the specimen. “After hearing of our… _Zombie_ specimens… The King forbade us from working any further. Although I believe it was still worth it in the Geo saved replacing things.”

They pressed deeper until they started coming across locked doors.

Well, locked to other bugs, maybe. Quirrel knew instinctively that they would open for him.

A few doors in, they finally came to the Teacher’s hidden workshop.

The room was round and tall, yet thin. Shelves lined the walls and stretched to the far-off ceiling above, while a small, round desk sat in the centre; Papers, acid tubes and diagrams splayed over it in all directions.

The shelves contained _nothing_ but written acid. Thousands of vials, all indistinguishable unless read and all restricted, for one reason for another, by the King.

Quirrel let his gaze fall on the Lady’s desk. “… Why don’t we check for the physical blueprints, first?” He suggested, “It’s all well and good finding a description of the process, but a diagram would prove much more useful.”

The next few hours were spent sorting the Teacher’s work into piles.

On the ground, information that wouldn’t help them. There laid detailed sketches of plants and animals, plans to expand the Archives further, and joking observations of the behaviour of nobles at parties.

Quirrel laughed out loud when he found them. “Oh! I helped with these!” He carefully added them to the pile, voice growing a little cheeky. “Do you want to hear a secret, friend?” With no answer, he ploughed on regardless, “The Madame rarely got invited to parties. The high society bugs clamoured to have her visit, however she could not leave the canyon for long before drying out; So, anyone that _really_ wanted her to attend had to install a tank of acid, sourced only from the lake below us, for her to soak in.” He barely held in his giggles as he continued, “But it was a lie! She just didn’t want to go! And it worked! Despite being a noble herself, she found those events as stifling as I did. When we had to attend, these notes were some of the only things keeping us sane.”

His memories of the events themselves were next to non-existent, but he could remember _her;_ Monomon’s laughter as she retired to the tank of acid Madam Emilitia so graciously provided in her desperate attempts to stay within the good graces of the upper class, sipping disgustingly expensive wines from tiny glasses as they shared notes on the behaviour of the various dukes and duchesses in attendance.

The second pile, balanced on the desk, were of things that were relevant. The production of the kingsmolds jumped out at him as something to peruse, perhaps unconsciously he still remembered how the vessels were produced?

It didn’t matter, because the Lady also had reams upon reams of parchments and tablets and written acid dedicated to the process.

The desk had draws, he discovered, after Ghost grasped an odd outcropping and tugged it open. Some were locked in the same way the doors were, unable to be opened by other bugs, but unlocked for Quirrel himself.

One refused to open at all.

He left that one, for the Lady deserved to keep her secrets, but dug eagerly into the rest; Pulling piles of information out into the open.

She had documented the entire process. Every sordid detail, every unnecessary sacrifice.

Quirrel pulled a blank roll of parchment from nearby, happily finding the ink in his Lady’s inkwell still wet after all these years.

He slipped into an almost familiar state of work, pouring over the records and noting down what they needed and what they had to do.

The ritual was complex, horrendously so, but designed so the King only had to perform it once to produce millions of vessels. They could fudge it a little, they only needed a little bit of living void.

But one problem remained.

A flesh sacrifice needed to be made to induce form and an _awareness_ within the void, the closest thing to a mind the King would allow.

“I suppose I could afford to lose a finger?” Quirrel suggested.

Ghost gasped, the noise coming out like a cough. _“N- No!”_

A cheeky smile made its way onto his face as he continued, “Yes, yes, that would be a bit much; I mean, the vessel would come out looking like me!” He gasped dramatically, leaning back in a mock faint, “You’re right, I would never wish something so _terrible_ upon you.”

_“No!! No!”_ Ghost squealed, _“Not… It! Hurt!”_

Quirrel let them stew for a moment, before sitting up straight. “Calm yourself. I was mostly kidding.” He made a note on that step, they would come back to it. “Anyway, if it does come to that, it would just grow back.” It would take years, but it would still grow back.

It took many hours more to compile everything into a single roll of parchment, and they had to dip into some other subjects, predominantly curse-breaking, to find a way to get Ghost _out_, but by the end of it they had the recipe to cook up one very special Vessel.

Now, all they needed was a new mask and access to the King’s workshop, where the ritual was designed to take place. The first was easily doable, for the Mask Maker practiced his art for free.

The second would be harder, but the Ghost communicated clearly that they already knew its location, and they could get there easily.

Job done, Quirrel carefully packed everything away again, slipping the field notes on nobles into his bag along with the scroll for… Further reading.

Monomon kept blankets and pillows under her desk for midnight study sessions, and Quirrel gladly dragged them out into the open. With bag and spear placed safely to the side, he burrowed in.

“Ghost, my friend, tonight, could you try sleeping too?” Work done, he could feel his exhaustion catching up fast. “We’re safe here, and I believe we’ll both feel more rested for it.”

_“Mmky”_ Ghost murmured back.

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

\---

Ghost waited for Quirrel to fall firmly asleep before they dragged their senses as far out as they could go and dived directly into the locked draw in Monomon’s desk.

He might be upset at their nosiness, but he should know better than most that all curiosity deserved to be satisfied.

There were only three things of note in the draw.

A simple sketch of the Teacher’s mask, overlain with notes and the outlines of a magical seal, and two beautiful ink drawings of Quirrel.

One was only drawn to the neck, he was hatless and maskless, a fact that made Ghost feel that perhaps they were intruding on something very personal indeed, looking directly at the observer with a small smile.

The second showed him in profile, working at the same desk he slept before now.

Both were covered in extremely intricate diagrams and notations of spell matrices in a different ink, branching through his body like roots and written in far more detail than the Teacher ever spared for her own work.

They couldn’t make heads nor tails of the writing, which seemed to be in a code all of her own, and retreated far more confused than they were before.

She had done _something_ to him. That much was clear from their situation alone, bound within his brain by powerful magics. But that was just one enchantment, and it was clear from all evidence that she had done two.

They would never be able to figure it out alone. The air in the Archives laid thick with the Lady’s power. Obscuring the world around them like the fog outside until everything started to feel the same.

Going by their more exotic senses alone, Ghost wouldn’t be able to differentiate Quirrel from anything else in the archive; From a tube of acid to the slate they broke; According to their untrained eye, the spellwork was indistinguishable.

Did Quirrel know? They assumed not, nor were they sure how to tell him.

… He probably wouldn’t want to know anyway, they decided. Quirrel idolised Monomon, that much was clear to them, although they couldn’t fathom _why_. Perhaps it was a consequence of never meeting her, but Ghost found her actions… Selfish.

The Archive was an extremely impressive repository of knowledge for the kingdom at large, yes, except with everything written in code it seemed only those she deemed worthy could access it, a great hoard to be lorded over rather than a library; Dedicated only to furthering her particular brand of knowledge.

And then, when an inescapable duty was imposed upon her? She shifted it to the one person who would never refuse; Filling him with her own legacy just so he could survive the obliteration of mind conferred by the wastes beyond. And when he came back? She left him nothing for his efforts.

And after all that, she still faced the same fate as the rest of the Dreamers.

It didn’t seem fair. They felt… Bad. In a way they couldn’t pinpoint, for using him too.

They added that bad feeling to the pile, shoving it down with the guilt from earlier; Where it wouldn't bother them.

They would reward him, they decided, when they were back in their own shell again.

Something grand to make up for it all, a sweeping gesture of thanks and friendship.

But what? He loved the Archive, and he loved to learn and teach. That’s what he did before, Ghost assumed, and they would find a way ensure he could again.

As they puzzled, Quirrel started to dream; Reminding them of his request that they sleep. It would be difficult, dreams didn’t end for them unless they left purposefully or died, so they would have to keep their wits about them to avoid dragging it out for too long.

With nothing more than a simple thought, they hopped after him and fell into black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, I'm afraid. Couldn't add to it or fuse it with the next without bungling the pacing :(  
But ah well. That's how it be sometimes, we can't have action all the time, so lets enjoy the exposition!  
Anyway, they finally got their hands on the ritual! Took long enough. Now it's just a case of preperations and accessing the workshop. 
> 
> ... I'm sure that'll go fine. Yeah.
> 
> Next chapter will be a dream interval where Nothing Important At All will happen. Promise.


	8. Interval 1: An Evening With Monomon

When Ghost reawoke in the dream, they immediately realised they were wearing a little suit.

A bowtie tickled under their mask. The room around them was a bright marble white, decorated with thick trimmings of gold and full of noise and music, a live orchestral music blaring from a stage nearby. Behind them, stood an elaborate table so tall that it rose far over their head, stretching across the room and covered in food. 

Also, bugs. There were bugs everywhere. Each and every one dressed in a jewel-encrusted kind of finery they had never seen before, milling about the edges of the great hall as a group danced in the centre.

The place was cloudy and unreal. Cobbled together from some deep unconscious imprint of a memory.

But despite that, the atmosphere was _stifling_.

As they stared around, they noticed some of the bugs weren’t wearing such glitzy outfits, instead wearing simple suits that matched their own. These bugs weaved through the crowds, ignored by the masses, handing out drinks and snacks from trays.

One such bug hurried up to them and shoved an empty try into their hands. “What are you doing just standing _there_?” The stressed bug cried, “Head to the kitchens, we need more canapes here _now,_ otherwise the duchess will have us both fired!”

Ghost tilted their head questioningly. They were willing to play along, but they didn’t know where the kitchens were.

“Oh, for the love of-” The hurried bug physically wheeled them around until they were facing a large door near the stage, through which other waiters walked briskly in and out. “Just follow someone! Go!”

Ghost took off as fast as they could risk moving. They didn’t know what a waiter was until that exact moment, but they were willing to play the part until they found Quirrel; Or even until the night was over if they had to.

The kitchen bustled with a different kind of noise, the poor staff working overtime to supply the party above. They were barely glanced at as someone piled the tray in their hands with hundreds of tiny morsels and then ushered them back out faster than they entered.

As they climbed the flights of stairs back to the party, Ghost dragged their feet a little.

Perhaps they were feeling just a tad workshy.

What a welcome contrast, they reflected, to the days when they would do whatever was asked of them without question.

Something moved in the corner of their eye as they paused on a landing.

Ghost spun, using all their skills to keep the food stacked on their tray, only to find an open hallway behind them. They stuck their head around the doorframe, just to look, only to make eye contact with Quirrel doing the exact same thing from the other end.

He wore a tailcoat and a hat, and perked up upon seeing them, half-yelling, half-whispering “My friend, there you are! Quick, come this way!” Before scurrying off.

Ghost followed him, finding nothing urgent about his run. It felt more like he was simply playing a game.

They were proved right, as they followed him down a couple connected corridors, they noticed he would pause just long enough for them to catch up, before jogging off again.

The little game of cat-and-mouse lasted until they burst into a large library.

As they entered, they noticed the books were all dusty, clearly the owner never read them.

And above it all, Monomon glowed.

Ghost was astounded, for a second, as to how _real_ she felt. The other bugs were passable imitations of life, fuzzy around the edges if looked at for too long, but she stood sharp and tangible above them all.

She sank down between the shelves when she saw them, her long tendril arms falling in loose curls like ropes against the ground, Quirrel darting between them. “Over here!” He laughed, beckoning them over, Ghost doing their best to pick their way around the Teacher’s many limbs. “Madame, this is an old friend of mine, Ghost.” She bowed her head to them, and they inclined theirs back. “Ghost, we’re avoiding the other guests. It’s a good thing I found you! My Lady was getting peckish.”

Quirrel looked far _younger_ than in life.

He was as real as the Teacher next to him; Almost unrecognisably skinny and small framed, bright eyes glinting from within a mask shining with polish, his shell bright blue underneath the papery white of a bug soon to shed.

Monomon’s laugh was like the chime of bells, and they knew then that their perceptions were being coloured by the _real_ owner of the dream. “Are those canapes?” One arm delicately plucked the tray from their hands. “Oh, I love these! They’re so small, thank you.” She delicately slipped an armful under her mask. “It’s very nice to meet you, my dear, any friend of Quirrel’s is a friend of mine.” She shook their hand, reaching over and placing the tray on one of her curled arms, lifting it enough for Quirrel to reach and take a few for himself. “Are you working here tonight?” She asked, “I saw so many bugs rushing to and from the kitchens, it must be horribly busy.”

“They don’t talk, my Lady.” Quirrel said, as Ghost nodded in response to her question.

“So few do, these days.” She said cryptically, producing a sheet of parchment from the folds of her silken dress, which she showed to Ghost. “We’ve been passing the night with a spot of insect-watching. It’s quite good fun!”

They scanned the page quickly. The pair of them seemed to be subtly messing with the nobles and recording their reactions in a clinical, scientific hand.

Monomon’s voice turned slightly cheeky, leaning in and speaking from behind a tendril as if she were spilling some great secret. “And it would be unkind to expect a bug so small to work all night… I’m sure the staff won’t miss you if you join us for the rest of the evening, and I’m sure you’d enjoy helping us with our observations.” 

Bathed in the light of her glow, Quirrel seemed fit to burst. “My Lady, I’ve just had a very good idea…”

Before heading back to the halls above, Quirrel and Monomon redressed Ghost as quickly as possible with the express purpose of making them look a bit less like a waiter. They let it happen, for their friend was having fun, and honestly, they were curious.

They came out of it looking “Snazzy”, in Quirrel’s words. The Lady had swapped out their bowtie with a strip of glittery silk from her own dress, which she tied delicately like a scarf. They left the suit jacket behind and just went with the waistcoat underneath.

Satisfied with that, the trio marched back into the ballroom.

Monomon swept in, stealing the gazes of the surrounding aristocrats. Beneath her trailing tendrils, Ghost and Quirrel stepped almost unnoticed. They all wanted to speak to her, congregating around her unmissable form like a fly to Geo. Ghost understood why, for she was beyond otherworldly.

Also, she glowed like a lumafly.

She scanned the crowd of eager masks, spotted a target, and glided over with her two assistants following behind.

The bug she approached stood at the buffet, stuffing his mouth with food. “Oh, dear Lady Monomon!” The bug said, pausing in his feast. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“Yes, Mister Thorax, I feel I am.” She sized up the buffet. “Have you tried the canapes? Truly scrumptious.”

“My Lady, please, call me Poggy.” Seemingly stealing knowledge directly from their friend’s subconscious, Ghost recognised him as the owner of the Pleasure House. “I have, my Lady, but it seems they’ve been all out for a while. I’ve told the waiters to serve me more, but they’re being _exceptionally_ lazy tonight.”

“How terrible,” Monomon said, bringing the tray to her mask and eating an entire armful of canapes without breaking eye-contact. “Perhaps you should speak to the kitchens.”

“I…” Quirrel’s quill scratched quietly as Mister Thorax struggled for a response. “W… What a fantastic suggestion, my Lady!” His eyes slipped past her to Ghost, completely ignoring Quirrel with the practised gaze of one who knew who ‘the help’ was. “Oh?” He said, scrambling for a distraction, “My Lady, please introduce me to your companion here!”

Monomon took another mouthful. “_Mister Thorax! _Surely you recognise the Marquis of Canolla?” She said, the shock colouring her voice almost convincing.

“The Marquis of...? Oh! Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you in the Lady’s… Unique glow!” He lied, stepping forwards to shake their hand, his fingers wet with grease from the food.

A month or so before they would have taken the hand without hesitation, and just dealt with the consequences later. However, they had learnt a lot since then. Ghost’s reactions branching from “Passive Acceptance” to something approaching “What Would Quirrel Do?”

He would stay clean, they believed.

Ghost swiftly stepped out of range, prompting the Teacher to ask, “Are you sure you know the Marquis, Mister Thorax? Perhaps you mistook them for someone else?”

“No, no, I’m very sure.” He wiped his hands on his waistcoat “I’m almost certain I’ve seen you as a patron of my dear Pleasure House, am I correct, my friend?”

They shook their head, with the building long abandoned in the real world, their visits to Marissa probably didn’t count.

“Oh… W- well…” Mr Thorax cleared his throat, tossing around the room. “Ah, I think I see my wife. I give you my leave, my Lady, Marquise.”

After he left, Monomon turned to her student. “Quirrel, did you get all that?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“I’ve never seen anyone claim to know the ‘Marquise’ _directly_ to their face before.”

“No, Madame.”

“My dear,” She leant in closer, “You can drop the formalities, no one’s listening.”

Quirrel laughed, “I don’t know what you mean, my Lady, I’m simply acting as your dear servant should.”

Monomon snorted, nudging him with a tendril. “You are not my _servant_. It’s simply convenient to let these people think you are.” She turned to Ghost. “Would you be willing to play the Marquise again, my dear? Or shall we switch things up?”

They tilted their head, not knowing what she meant by ‘switch things up’.

Almost reading their mind, she dropped to their level and whispered conspiringly “Well, you see…”

Over the course of the evening, they played the Marquise six more times before passing the mantle to Quirrel, who had who had run off to complete his shed just for the occasion; Returning a fresh and shiny blue.

As they helped crack open bottles of plain fruit juice to drink, once again hidden from the rest of the guests in the library, the Lady explained that she only played her pranks on bugs that deserved it. “My dear, the Pleasure House treats their staff abysmally! Why, the corners Mister Thorax has cut just to line his pockets a little further… It’s enough to make one shudder.”

Already knowing the kind of _things_ the upper class could get up to; Ghost could respect that. Some of these bugs were due a little embarrassment.

Her laugh, beautiful and ethereal, cut through their thoughts. “I’m glad you feel the same way. But please,” She dropped her voice and leant close, so close they could physically feel the field of soul she used to float; It prickled and pulled at the fine hairs covering their shell. “In here, things will always go well, but out there, you cannot accurately predict any outcome. Please, please be _careful_; It will not be easy to fix your mistakes when you’ve only experienced a blameless life.”

What? They didn’t understand what she was referring to. They had only just met.

“_Listen_,” Desperation edged her voice. “Hallownest no longer sits in stasis, the world around you will no longer reset and allow you to try endlessly, you _must_ get used to it, and you _must_ adapt accordingly.” Stasis? Hallownest was thriving. They were just a waiter, they were not privy to whatever she was speaking about.

The last bottle came open under their distracted fingers and spat dream essence instead of liquid, wafting around the two of them like motes around ghosts, but the Teacher didn’t seem to notice.

… Oh, they were dreaming… How strange of them to forget. Ghost shook themselves. They were getting too into it, nothing they were experiencing was real. They were being dragged in by Quirrel’s mind, he believed the dream with all his heart, as most did.

They had never met Monomon, not really. The dream was supposed to be true to life but had nothing to go on, of course she would act a little strange.

…And the dream would never end unless they allowed it. They couldn’t allow themselves to become convinced.

Ghost stayed a bit more distant for the rest of the night, not quite permitting themselves to buy in anymore.

At the end of the evening, they escorted their two friends to the exit of the building.

“That was much more enjoyable than usual.” Monomon said, flying low and heavy, tired and full of snacks.

“Probably because we weren’t just standing around in one spot as the nobles gossiped about us, my Lady.” Quirrel responded lightly, “You know, like usual.”

“Perhaps,” She laughed, “And we got some data out of it too. Nothing useful, but I’ll enjoy reading it back.” She wrapped a tendril around Ghost’s shoulders. “And you, my dear, were an asset. If you ever feel like joining my Archive, there will always be a spot open for you.” They peered up at her as she spoke, and she, in turn, _loomed_; Spotless and glowing, mask shining and huge, eyes bright and glittering, as if she were staring right through them, as if she were reading into them, studying them, gaze raw as if her very face were _bare-_

No. No. Not their own thoughts. Dreaming. Brain being invaded by Quirrel’s weird gooey mind thoughts. _Only explanation._ Bad.

Still, it unnerved them. And forcefully, they tore their gaze away; The bug in question laughing from her other side, “My Lady! Are you trying to replace me _already_?”

“I would _never_.” She gasped, spinning in the air to face Quirrel, rope-like tendrils springing to coil around his arm. “Not in a million years, it would be so _boring_ without you.”

Was this… Personal? Should they go?

“If anything happened to you,” Monomon continued, undaunted, “I’d be distraught.”

Oh, no. It _was_ personal.

But worse, Monomon wasn’t looking at Quirrel.

_She was looking at them. _

The scene had stilled, her gaze bored, and Ghost felt… _Unease_? _Were they uneasy_? A new feeling, and one they didn’t like.

But it was only a dream. Their dream. And nothing could happen to them there.

… Except… It wasn’t their dream.

It was Quirrel’s.

And Quirrel had no problems at all with Monomon.

They were getting tense. Why were they so tense? It had been such a nice night! They needn’t panic! There was no need to panic! She wasn’t _real-_

Monomon moved, perhaps to speak or to gesture or joke but Ghost _flinched_; And with a harsh burst of will, they cut everything short in a panic and catapulted them both back into the waking world.

\---

Ghost awoke first, smashing headfirst back into awareness in their panic.

_Why had they done that? _

The side of their face felt wet, and tingly. A black stain spreading on the sheets where they’d been drooling void, probably spat fresh in their fright.

No, no! They had to keep it in! The void welled within them more than it ever had before, clawing somewhere deep inside their form, it ran dilute through Quirrel’s veins but drawing on it even accidently caused it to concentrate until even the smallest leak ran deadly; They couldn’t just shed it off as they did before.

They folded over the sheet to hide the stain, stilling their moments as Quirrel surfaced from the remains of the dream, stretching and yawning.

Monomon’s strange words still drifted around their head, holding more of their attention than they should, but as he ran through the morning routine, Ghost allowed their thoughts to drift away.

They felt something… Strange. Something was _off_ in the air. Something they couldn’t pinpoint.

And it wasn’t the sudden turn the dream had taken at the end.

The Teacher’s magic ran thickly through the building, so much so that their senses were limited even more than they were already by their friend’s mortal shell.

On the way in, it mattered little and built up so slowly they barely noticed, but now something tickled at their awareness in a way they just couldn’t scratch. It felt familiar, like an old part of them, long gone from the whole and different because of it.

_Something had changed_. They knew that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update/Edit - 10/5/20
> 
> I've updated this chapter with a brand new ending in order to bring it more in line with how I want my characterisation to be  
The old one, frankly, shouldn't have gotten through editing- However I didn't edit this chapter... So it did, oops!  
Enjoy the improved ending and also some minor grammar tweaks!
> 
> And sorry to all the people who's comments don't make sense now


	9. Vibe Check

The air of Fog Canyon beckoned from the main hall of the Archives.

Quirrel had a bit of a spring in his step that morning. He felt rested. _Really_ rested this time, not the facsimile of the feeling he’d experienced waking up by the side of the void sea.

The air felt fresh, his ankle only hurt if he balanced all his weight on it, the headache had finally dulled a bit, and they’d accomplished an important step towards scooping his little friend back into their own shell.

Speaking of his little friend, Ghost seemed to be scoping out the adjoining rooms and corridors with a strange focus; Quirrel could _see_ them, the layouts appearing perfect within his mind as they had before back in the inn.

They were being more careful now, not stretching, but probing in flashes, keeping the pain to a minimum. He would allow it.

There was something else, too. Where the headache sat, he could feel… A prickle. A touch of something, like a foreign emotion that scratched at the surface of his mind. A flicker of worry, perhaps.

It made his insides feel tight and unpleasant, putting a small damper on his good mood.

Ghost threw their net a little wider, inundating his mind with layouts and objects to the point where it was almost hard to see.

The light from the entranceway was nearly blinding compared to the gentle glow of the Archives, Quirrel squinted against it as he moved, the features of the outside world resolving slowly as his eyes adjusted.

Something knocked against his foot, hidden from his view by the swimming visions of rooms and the blinding lights. “Okay, you’re obscuring my vision a bit now.” The sights stopped, the headache dimming a little in return.

Quirrel bent to inspect whatever he’d hit.

An uoma core sat just on the main pathway, wobbling slightly from the light impact.

He stooped to scoop it up. It was fresh, and a little warm, the buzz of energy that would have once powered the owner of the core merely tingling through his fingers.

“Oh?” He said, “I wonder where this came from.” It wasn’t uncommon to just find desiccated old cores sitting around, but finding them fresh and undamaged was a little unusual.

Not _unheard_ of, though. The fragile little thing must’ve bumped into a wall.

“Did you know these are edible?” He asked casually, taking a bite out of it like a piece of fruit.

It parted easily in his jaws, more like a soft dessert than anything from an animal.

And it was _delicious_.

Snack in hand, he stepped into the oval of light thrown on the floor by the archway to the canyon, stopping for a second to shade his eyes with his free hand.

The limp, coreless body of the uoma sat in the archway, its transparent body refracting the light from outside into a wavy, gooey shadow.

Strange.

Quirrel picked it up. “That’s odd, these creatures usually dissolve on death. It must have been killed by something atmospheric, anything else would have delivered too much blunt trauma for it to keep form… A toxic gas, perhaps?” His head shot up, an old memory slipping out before he could stop it. “We’re not having another carbon monoxide leak, are we?”

Quirrel paused, squinting. “… I don’t even know when that happened. Or where.” He tossed the dead uoma. “Lately, I’ve been recalling things mid-conversation, and speaking of them before I even… Understand what I’m saying.”

He took another bite of the core. “I recall it happening when we met in the Fungal Wastes all those months ago, I advised you to seek the Nailsmith before I truly realized there _was_ one.”

_“Helpful.” _Ghost said.

“For you, maybe. But it was confusing for me. I didn’t know why it was happening.” He sat, taking a few more bites of his snack. “It’s strange. When I arrived here, I completely forgot what my Lady’s mask looked like, even though I wore it on my head. I didn’t recognise it on the temple, or on the statue in the city.”

“And I knew what it looked like before.” He said, her face still stark within his memory. “In great detail, even. It feels as if someone dipped into my mind and edited my memory, just so I wouldn’t catch on before I was required to.”

Quirrel found his thoughts interrupted as faint footsteps approached from outside and Ghost scrambled behind a pillar._ “Gah- Guards!”_

He peered out, spotting their approach through the mist. “So there are. Let’s go.”

They pressed further back behind the pillar. _“No, day- dang-er.”_

Quirrel sighed, shaking his head. “We can’t keep running away. Things would be easier if we get this sorted out. Anyway,” He tried to take a step only for Ghost to hold fast, “They’re not going to hurt us. That’s not their… Job…” He trailed off as he came to a realization. “…_You’ve never interacted with anything other than husk guards, have you_?”

_“Mm.”_

“_Oh_,” Quirrel said, “You’re scared of them.”

_“Ah. Hhh… No?”_ They said, unconvincingly.

Knowing he had them, he managed to force out a step forward. “Really? Well, in that case let’s head outside and say hello.”

They slammed his back against the wall again. _“No! Dang-er!”_

With a slight smile in his voice, Quirrel said, “It’s okay to admit you’re scared.”

_“Huuuuuuurthgnthphh”_

“How… Did you make that noise with my mouth…?” He paused, sliding the core into his bag for later and slipping back into the Archives proper. “Come, let’s take a different exit.”

\---

The main exits were surrounded.

Guards moved through the building in threes, almost filling the upper levels. It was a miracle that they hadn’t run into any on their way out, although Quirrel suspected that they had arrived at the main entrance before the main bulk of them entered.

The secret exits either lead somewhere completely out of their way or, worse, into a populated area.

They ended up hunkering down on one of the lower levels, away from the comfortable environment of shelves and specimens, where once upon a time they prepared the acid for writing.

It did not come out of the lake ready for use, after all, just as a slate of stone can’t be dug from the ground smooth and clean.

The floor was fairly dangerous and hard to navigate unless you already knew your way about it, so the guards avoided the area.

But even in a hiding place so far away from the main centre of activity, they couldn’t escape the strong smell that wafted throughout the building.

“The Defender’s here.” Quirrel said, sitting on a catwalk and letting his feet dangle precariously over a vat of acid. “We should find him.”

_“W- With _them_.”_ Ghost hissed, _“Danger.”_

“I _know_ he’s with the guards. But we know him.” He said. “He seemed like a kind bug, and I… Consider him a friend already. I think on some level I _must_ remember him.” An ooma drifted aimlessly below. “I’ll tell him I’ve been accused of a crime I didn’t commit. Maybe…”

_“Dee- Did d- do it.”_ Ghost said. _“Th- Tha- Though. He… He-ll f- fight.”_

“_You_ did it, not me. I barely even know what the crime was, I was unconscious. And you can’t speak well enough to tell me.” He sighed. “We can’t keep running from this problem. It’ll only get worse. Ogrim won’t hurt us.”

Ghost shook their head_. “Will!”_

“No, he won’t!” Quirrel stood. “We have to do this. I’ll tell him I didn’t do it, that’s true enough, maybe he’ll believe me, maybe he won’t, but-”

“I probably won’t believe you, my friend.” Ogrim said from the other end of the catwalk. “Who are you speaking to?”

“Oh no.” Quirrel jumped, coming to face Ogrim. “Ah! Hello! My friend, I was… I was just, ah, I,” He stumbled over his words, but as he spoke, something hit the ground hard behind him, shaking the walkway under his feet and making him whirl back around only to come face to face with a wall of red.

The Hollow Knight moved with the hard grace of a warrior, even after their time sealed. No longer did they wear the whites of the Palace, Quirrel wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen them in life, but he _knew_ that’s what the Pale King dressed them in, instead they wore the same shade as the new Queen; Their cloak so long and ruffled he could barely see the body underneath.

However, he did not miss the weapon levelled between his eyes.

“Quirrel, last Attendant of the Teacher’s Archives,” Ogrim said from behind. “You’re under arrest.”

\---

Quirrel knew when to quit.

He surrendered before Ghost could even _think_ to attack, dumping his bag and weapon to the floor and allowing his hands to be bound before anything else happened.

He was scared. The emotion was coming from them, he knew, working its way through his system until it was physically impossible to tell from his own.

“What now?” Quirrel asked, as the knight hooked him by the elbow and began to lead him from the room.

“The Queen awaits nearby, I’m to take you to her.”

“The Queen? _Hornet_?” Quirrel twisted away until he could see Ogrim’s face, searching for the signs of a joke. “Why her? That’s ridiculous, it was just a little breaking and entry! At most! I didn’t even know!” He cried, half guessing at what he’d been accused of. Trying to defend Ghost’s actions felt a little easier than trying to explain their presence.

The knight stopped dead, jerking him to a sharp halt. Wide eyes boring into Quirrel’s with a palpable fury. “Just- Just a little **_breaking and entering_**?” Ogrim’s voice rose to a roar within seconds, Quirrel flinched, trapped in no position to curl up as the most basic parts of his brain cried out to do. “There is a bug fighting for her _life_ up there because of you! This is _beyond_ breaking into the city!”

“_What_?” He hadn’t hurt anyone! He knew that.

Oh, but for a while _he_ wasn’t the one in charge.

The pieces were coming together in Quirrel’s mind. Ghost had to have entered the city somehow. The main entrances were all guarded and he had foolishly assumed they’d just slipped past carelessly enough to be spotted. But no, they _never_ shied from a fight. In fact, more often than not they started them.

The spear attached to his bag was of the make the city guard carried.

They oozed acid _unconsciously_.

_He’d woken up injured._

“_Ghost_.” Quirrel hissed, almost too quiet for the knight looming over him to hear. “_What have you done_?”

He could taste void, bitter and metallic, burning against his tongue. But he could also feel them trying to hold it in, a palpable tightening and a trembling through his form that left it dilute, pushing it away from the soft tissues within his mouth, over the hard plates he used to chew and drooling black over his chest, his shell actually offering protection against weakened the acidic effect.

They were _terrified_, and they were forcing him to be too.

\---

Ghost was petrified.

They knew the only reason Quirrel was staying calm was that he didn’t realise what was awaiting him.

They were going to kill him. Ghost knew this with certainty.

That’s what happened. That’s what _always_ happened. There would be a challenge, a fight, and unless they escaped or took the initiative, they would meet their end on the tip of a nail.

They did not get this far in Hallownest by trusting others not to hurt them.

They had to wait. Quirrel was too trusting of others, he had allowed the knight to bind his hands. Ogrim was nice, Ghost knew, he wouldn’t be dishonourable enough to attack them while they were defenceless, but the guards were another story.

And _Hornet_. They couldn’t guess what she would do.

When the Hollow Knight appeared, Ghost realised that they were what _they_ had felt when they awoke. Their mind, so battered and scarred by the onslaught of the Radiance was entirely closed off, preventing them from communicating as creatures of the void should.

It made them feel bad, how they hadn’t noticed.

They had left them so closed off and alone!

Their sibling probably didn’t even know they were there. They probably thought they were dead and gone.

It mixed with their guilt over getting Quirrel in such trouble and their fear of his fate into something nasty and slimy and rotten inside. But they had to ignore it, they had to choke it down with the rest and deal with the issue at hand.

Ignoring their feelings was getting harder, but they had to try.

The Defender had relaxed his grip, Quirrel could slip out if he wanted to but they knew he _wouldn't._ They knew he would walk calmly into his doom if he felt it was the best thing to do, and unlike them, he would not come back.

Monomon’s words swam through their mind. She was right, they wouldn’t get any second chances.

But they would not let things get that far.

They had to wait for their moment.

\---

The Defender balked at the sight of void pouring from Quirrel’s mask, almost releasing his arm. “Apprentice? Is that what I think it is?”

His Apprentice reached a hand forwards, catching a drop as it fell from his chin. They let it bead between their claws, the harsh green lights of the Archive shadowing their face, before giving a small nod of affirmation.

Quirrel felt the urge to reach up and wipe it away as if it were nothing more than drool or an unsightly spill, but with his hands tied behind his back, the action was impossible.

It would also be useless, because the void was not _stopping_.

“This looks bad.” He gurgled.

Ogrim pushed Quirrel to take a seat on the metal ground. They had entered an atrium, the domed ceiling holding a glass window to the world outside; One of many, if he recalled. “It looks _more_ than bad!” He waved a hand at the Hollow Knight, his apprentice. “Forget about the rest, go, and bring her here.”

They nodded, leaving and taking Quirrel’s stuff with them.

“What happened to you? Explain.”

The moment the knight let go of him, Ghost started to babble; _“Es- Es-ca-pe! S- Soul! Waar-p!”_ They cried, _“Go, g- go, go, go, g- go!”_

“I _can’t_.” Quirrel hissed, trying to quiet their voice as much as he could. “We need to deal with this! Please, be quiet!”

Void bubbled from his mask as he spoke, popping and throwing drops across the two of them, but with the thick layer of grime coating his shell, Ogrim was unbothered.

“This isn’t what it seems-” Quirrel started, only to find himself cut across.

The Defender’s words came short and sharp. “I’ll ask you again, Quirrel. _What are you talking to_?”

“I’m- I’m sort of…” Finally faced with the chance to explain himself, Quirrel found himself wavering. What could he say? What could he possibly say? “… _Possessed_?”

Not that! That was the _wrong_ thing to say!

“Ah, but, it’s- They’re- Did you ever meet the Wanderer? The little Ghost? Tiny, wielded a beautiful nail?” He asked, struggling to choke down the fear Ghost was radiating.

Any second now, they we going to go into fight or flight; And Quirrel knew _exactly_ which one they’d pick. He had to recover the situation before it got that far.

But as he spoke, Ogrim’s eyes had widened in shock until they almost bugged out of his head.

“You’re _infected_.” He gasped. “Oh no, no. This is- This is bad!”

Things immediately started to go off the rails. “Wait, no, I’m not!” Quirrel cried, as Ghost started to hiss and splutter _“Run!”_

“Do you not hear yourself? Yes, you are.” Ogrim shot back, pulling at Quirrel’s arm as if he could shake sense into him. “You were there when it all started! This is how it began!”

“I don’t remember!” He shot back.

“Oh, of course.” The knight wilted a little, sighing. “I apologize. Before the fall, early infectees did all kinds of… Acts. They would turn to violence at the smallest provocation. There were riots. Robberies. Murders; Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you held your spear when we met. Even as it was, we could not truly blame them, many didn’t even know what they’d done.” He released Quirrel’s arm, starting to pace. “Do you realise what this _means_?”

“That you’re-”

_“Es-cape!”_

“- Wrong?”

The Defender looked more than unimpressed. “You’re in denial.”

He turned his back on Quirrel for a moment. “I need to think. The Queen… Is not going to take this _well_. I… I’ll speak to her beforehand. She’s a fair bug, she listens to my counsel.”

Quirrel could feel his heart hammering. _“Sorry,”_ Ghost muttered.

“It’s not your fault.” Ogrim said. “No one can control how fate falls.”

He knew in an instant that the apology wasn’t for the knight. He could feel Ghost drawing on his soul, pooling it into a spell that made the burning in his throat increase tenfold and his breath puff in cold clouds from his face.

They pulled at the ropes binding his wrists, the knots, sloppily done by a knight who cared too much, came apart easily, freeing his hands.

The void ran thicker and blacker than ever before, the stinging turning back into burning.

_The apology was for him._

Void exploded out of Quirrel’s mask in a screaming cloud that smashed Ogrim directly in the back. The knight to hit the floor with a shout of surprise and pain, black drops raining back down upon the two of them as Ghost pulled Quirrel to stumble away while the scholar scrabbled under his mask to _get the burning out._

**“WHY.”** He shouted, clawing desperately at his own eyes.

_“P- PANIC’D.”_ Ghost cried back, fat globs crawling out from beneath the porcelain under their command and hitting the floor at his feet with a series of nasty splats.

He hated what was happening, he and Ghost would be having a talk later, but the burning had stopped. He could recover the situation. He _could_. That would be enough.

“Ogrim, my friend, _I’m sorry,_ I didn’t mean to-” The Defender recovered faster than he thought possible for a bug so large and _lunged_.

Quirrel dodged backwards, Ogrim’s entire attitude had changed. Void ran down his carapace, shedding drops as he moved. He didn’t speak, or laugh, or even react to any spoken words; His face set in a mask of grim determination.

_The time for negotiation had passed. _

Weaponless and out of options, Quirrel cut his losses and ran. The next room had an entrance to the hidden tunnels, he could hide in there until… Well, he knew they probably wouldn’t leave.

Until he was desperate enough to take the exit to the Wastelands, then.

He didn’t make it. A streak of red shot into the scene, landing ahead of him and levelling a needle at his face.

Hornet, Queen of Hallownest, did not speak.

_She simply assessed the situation and charged._

He dived out of the way, grabbing a long-broken section of piping from the ground as he moved. It was fragile and half rusted, but he had little choice.

“Your Majesty- My Lady, _Hornet_, please, I can explain.” Ghost was already holding the pipe like a weapon, and Quirrel had to force his posture and grip to relax with more effort than he could really spare. “This is all a misunderstanding!” He moved slowly forwards, arms up in a placating gesture.

_“Step no further!”_ Hornet roared. “You host a stolen power that only seeks to bring ruin to my kingdom! I will not negotiate with a criminal!” With no room to respond, she bellowed a challenge and charged.

Quirrel dived out of the way, rust splintering underneath his fingers.

He dodged again as Hornet came the other way, taking stock quickly.

The Hollow Knight had re-joined then, but for some reason seemed to be ignoring the battle. They knelt nearby, cradling a blob of void within their hand with their nail resting uselessly upon the floor. Good.

The Defender called something out to Hornet, the two warriors manoeuvring until they were standing opposite to each other. 

Quirrel recognised what they were doing in an instant. They were placing themselves so he could only see one at a time, forcing him to be constantly on the lookout for the other.

Ghost’s senses supplemented his own enough to duck a grab from behind without looking, simultaneously parrying a hard hit from Hornet’s needle. “Please, I don’t want to fight!”

“Coward!” Hornet replied, a razor-sharp cloud of thread whipping from her body and forcing him back into the knight’s range.

“This is not cowardice, _this is common sense_!” He hated to do it, but as Ogrim dived forwards Quirrel smacked him hard with the pipe, breaking it in two and sending him rolling into another room with a crash. He merely hoped he hadn’t hit any acid.

Hornet dived again, Quirrel took a hard step back to avoid her, but his ankle buckled and sent him to the ground. With one swing she smashed the remains of the pipe from his fingers, and in an instant the new Queen of Hallownest was upon him, needle raised.

There was no time to move. No time to _react_.

Quirrel’s dodge was clumsy, the strike, aimed for his head, struck somewhere in his chest, cleaving directly through to the other side.

“No!” Ogrim’s footsteps shook the floor behind them, “Wait!”

Hornet pulled her needle back out with a grunt and a horrid splash of liquid. It was the wrong colour. _His blood was the wrong colour._

Quirrel collapsed at her feet but he wasn’t dead _yet_. He could warp into the room behind her. He could get elsewhere in the building. They had medical supplies. He didn’t know where, but he had to _go_. He just... He just had to…

The spell misfired. He appeared barely a few feet away, hands clutching at the hole through his shell as his back hit the handrail of the catwalk, acid hissing below.

As his knees hit the slatted metal, he drew upon his soul again.

He had to… He had to go…

_He just…_

But Hornet didn’t miss twice, and Quirrel’s shell gave no resistance as, with a visceral finality, she plunged her needle directly through his brain.

\---

Ghost hated dying so much.

They could handle their own deaths. They were quite the old hat at taking them well, for they always knew their shell would reform elsewhere in a few hours and they could try again as often as they needed to.

It always felt more like an oscillation than a true plunge into nothingness.

When Hornet’s needle breached their head, all sensory information stopped. Not merely a numbness but a complete lack of feeling that consumed them until they felt compelled to escape by flinging themselves out as far as they could, forcing them to watch from the third person as she pulled it out again, her cut clean and efficient, allowing their best friend and only hope to slump to the floor with hardly a twitch, just a splash of haemolymph and a thud.

That was it. As simple and quick as any other death.

They were terrified of getting Quirrel killed. All this time, every action they had taken, they were trying to _avoid_ it.

He was a bug. _And bugs did not come back._

With their friend gone they would be alone once more, stuck as life went along without them; As everyone they knew lived and died while they could only watch.

They billowed out in a screaming cloud and she _saw_ them; Tripping over her feet to stumble out of their range as they swung and clawed and snapped even as Monomon’s magic still bit into them, even as they writhed in fury or grief or despair, they couldn’t know _which._

The grip of the magic tightened. Quirrel had only been destroyed physically as the teacher’s spells wound extra coils around his immortal soul and incorporeal mind like a vice, pinning them into his corpse.

Ghost railed at their binds at the sheer cruelty of it all. She had trapped him in the same situation as them, bound to a body until the spells finally died like their caster.

Even they were losing consciousness now. For they were tied in too tightly, their hold on the world now depending on a physical, functioning brain. The Teacher’s spells still worked, doing something important, draining soul faster than they thought possible but they could no longer grasp why that was, because they were _fading_. The bindings still held them tight, some part of them remained, but the rest was going, going, _going_… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Monomon: Please please don't make things worse than they already are. I beg of you._   
_Ghost: Oh I see you want me to escalate further yes I can do that_
> 
> I've been wanting to get here for a while! Things have uuuuhhhh picked up a lil huh :O  
Also, I feel the need to say don't worry he'll be (basically) FINE, it would be mean if I just stright up killed Quirrel and ended the fic here (if not VERY funny)  
Unfortunately I probably won't be able to update next week, things have just lined up poorly enough for me to leave you on a cliffhanger :'0  
Don't forget to... Review...


	10. Out of the Frying Pan

“He was my _friend_.” Ogrim lamented, feet dragging as they left the room.

Hornet did not… Know comfort as another bug might, but she would have to be a fool to miss her knight’s state of mind. He was… Upset.

She had instructed some guards to keep an eye on things as she escorted him and his apprentice back to the exit of the Archives.

They couldn’t leave the body there. Not with the possibility of a new infection looming on the horizon. She had bugs that would die for the chance to tear through a newly infected corpse, but she would not force him to be a part of that.

“I know.” She said. Truthfully, she had no idea the two had ever met before. “We did what we had to, your friend… Likely wasn’t in there anymore.”

“I… Realised that, I think.” He sighed, “And that _shadow_. It was... Enormous.”

“The Abyss has been producing those constructs since my father’s experiments. But… You are correct. I’ve never seen one like _that_.” She shook her head, “The void is supposed to be mindless, primeval. I… I don’t know how something has managed to take such control of it to do this.” Ogrim’s sad face hadn’t changed. “I’m sorry about your friend, and I’m sorry we couldn’t save the little Ghost, but we _will_ get to the bottom of this.”

Her placating words made little impact, almost agitating him further. “How many more bugs do we have to _lose_? Even after all this? He was _surrendering_.” He stopped to lean back against a wall, rubbing at his face with a claw. “There are so few of us now; The survivors of the infection… There’s barely enough to fill a town.”

“We’re in recovery.” She laid a hand on his arm, rubbing up and down as she had seen others do before. “We finished this new disease before it had a chance to start. No one else will have to die.” The movement was mechanical, and she pulled away too quickly, but ease was never her strongest talent.

They approached the Hollow Knight, still holding a jiggling blob of black void like the most valuable of objects.

As they moved closer, the Knight proffered it towards them like an offering.

“Yes,” Hornet said, “It’s void, we know.”

They shook their head, almost shoving the handful into Hornet’s arms with an unusual insistence. “Do you… What me to look at it?” She asked, “It’s void. It is the same as all the other void we have seen.”

The Hollow Knight made a deep rumble somewhere within their chest, breath huffing from their mask as they shook the handful. They were acting like they had come to some great realization. “I don’t understand,” She said, “Do you have a slate? Write it down.”

They straightened to their full sitting height and levelled her with a blank look that in her mind vaguely translated to _‘Why would I carry slates?’_

“… Of course.” A faint noise came from the room they had just left, and Hornet found herself turning towards it. It sounded like a muffled squabble, or hushed shouting.

Faintly, behind her, Ogrim asked “You can _write_?”

“… Yes.” She said, absently, “But they enjoy forcing people to interpret their charades.”

Their conversation stopped as soon as it started as hurried footsteps came from the room they had just left and a guard came sprinting down the corridor towards them. “Ma’am! _Ma’am!”_

“What is it?” The bug’s tone of voice was somewhere between fear and desperation.

“We- The- The dead guy- He’s… Resurrecting!” They pointed rapidly back the way they’d came, “We’ve never seen anything like it before!”

“_Already_?” Hornet asked incredulously, “It took the last infection _hours_ to restore a body.”

“That’s the problem, it’s _not_ the infection. I’ve _seen_ that, we all have, the- The- noises and the blood and… It was horrid but this… It’s something _else_. Please come look.” As the guard beckoned them back the other way, Hornet wondered for a moment if she allowed them to be too casual with her. Maybe she did, the new and surviving aristocrats certainly _hated_ it, but she ruled like her mother, not the King. In Deepnest, anyone could speak to Herrah personally.

She paused, looking back at her Defender, standing close with his Apprentice.

The great knights always relied on each other, leaning on each other, working together to face whatever stood in their way. But he was _alone_, the last.

“You don’t have to come.” She said quietly.

“No,” He stepped up to walk abreast with her, “I do.”

She was thankful for his support, she supposed. Sometimes he was the only voice standing between her and challenging each and every one of the politicians in Dirtmouth to combat. Every day, more seemed to appear, each with their own _opinions_ on the new kingdom.

Behind them, the Hollow Knight finally shifted with a great rustle of material to follow them back through.

It wasn’t hard to catch sight of the corpse. It hadn’t exactly moved, after all; Although the twitching was… concerning. The guards stood far out of range of the thing, chittering and chattering as she passed.

Privately Hornet wished she’d managed to kill this bug the _first_ time she met him.

But from the looks of things, it would have made no difference, because the guard was right; It _wasn’t_ any form of infection.

It was the characteristic work of _the Teacher._ A flood of green soul oozed slowly to patch all wounds; Evaporating with a soft hissing where it met the air, rebuilding the bug from the inside out.

“What is _that_?” Ogrim gasped from her shoulder. The volume of pure soul fizzling and filtering into the air was enough to make her uncomfortable, it weighed on her breaths; Like standing in a room full of steam.

“It appears the Teacher’s obsession with preservation did _not_ end with her records and samples.” Hornet sighed, she did not have time for this... Clear _misuse_ of magic. The Archive’s self-healing system was egregious enough but… _Really_?

It wasn’t even working correctly. Hornet did _not_ like the way the bug’s shell swelled and shuddered, radiating a cold that covered the walkway around it with frost. She was supposed to be past this. She was supposed to be leading her inherited kingdom back to… Well, no, Hallownest was never _great_, but she would make it _better_. She shouldn’t be saddled with dealing with the misshapen results of some great leader’s hubris, not anymore.

“That’s… Wyrm, that’s horrible.” Ogrim’s voice wavered. “It looks like it _hurts_.”

“I’m... _Sure_ it doesn’t.” She lied, “However, it also makes our situation far more complicated.” Regardless, she knew what she needed to do. Hornet crossed the walkway within seconds and pressed a foot into the body’s back, stilling the convulsions enough for her to flip the corpse and position her needle over the fragile, swollen throat. “Look away. I need to do enough damage to keep this _thing_-” The Defender twitched at her choice of words, “- To _keep him at rest_ until this can be dealt with properly. It will not be pleasant.” She did not make a habit of thinking of the infected as _people_, but for Ogrim she would make a verbal exception.

The Hollow Knight grabbed her arm, shaking their head. They had the blob clasped awkwardly in their elbow, and as she stepped back, they shoved it in her face again, gesturing at her, themselves, and the corpse.

Hornet shrugged them off. “Please, not now. Tell me later.”

They struggled to put the blob away fast enough to grab hold of her, earning her enough time to check again to ensure her needle was placed correctly, and push downwards.

Something _popped_, there was a flush of dark liquid, and abruptly a lot of things happened at once.

\---

If there was one thing Relic Seeker Lemm hated more than living with other bugs, it was being _forced_ to live with other bugs. He had been evacuated to the _Remembered Crossroads_, or _New Dirtmouth_, or _Little Hallownest_ or whatever they were calling it these days, back when the tendrils first started to plague the city below; And while he had managed to bring a majority of his shop with him, he was still less than happy about the arrangement.

He would be even less happy if he’d died like the previous owners of his artefacts, he supposed, but he _hadn’t,_ so he could be as grumpy as he liked about it.

He had been a little put out of a job by the revival of… At most… A _sixth_ of Hallownest’s past population, but those were only the _intact_ infected, the dead still had stories to tell and he’d be a damned bad scholar if he didn’t learn what he could from them.

Also, the dead didn’t try to engage him in _conversation_.

Of course, by virtue of no longer being able to subside on scavenging food from empty houses, he had to go out and _shop_, thus exposing himself to the ordeal of _talking to people._

When he visited the market, he always ended up buying more than he intended just to shut the salesbugs up.

Lemm was only looking for a few things this time, though, most importantly the day’s newspaper.

It couldn’t actually be called a ‘newspaper’ in reality, for it was nothing more than some awful gossip rag that managed to outprint everything else by virtue of _not_ being based in the city, but he enjoyed a little bit of terrible reporting for the sheer entertainment value of it.

He was looking forwards to settling back home with a steaming cup of tea to read about the supposed acid-shooting _‘wyrmbug’_ plaguing that sleepy little village near the Fungal Wastes.

Reading between the lines, it was pretty clear the story was nothing more than an elaborate advert for some dusty old inn, but worth a read nonetheless.

He flicked it open a few pages as he walked, skimming the articles. Ooh, an ‘exclusive’ interview with a guard that got minorly injured during a scuffle with the thing, how _exciting_.

And, hah, the eyewitnesses described it as being four-limbed, thus already disqualifying it from being a wyrm on account of wyrms having no more than _two_ limbs.

Hallownest had a bit of a wyrm obsession if you asked Lemm, and he briefly entertained the idea of writing in to correct whatever hack threw together such a poorly researched headline.

Ah, but there was also the small fact that he didn’t care.

As he stowed his groceries and set the kettle over the fire, he couldn’t help but wonder… What _would_ that make it, though?

He wasn’t exactly an expert on ancient beasts and higher beings, but he could idly hazard a guess while his tea brewed.

_Hmm._ Lemm found himself brushing his fingers through his beard as he thought; An old habit, but it helped him focus.

_Well_, the difference between a wyrm and a lindwurm was negligible at best, from what he could tell, and most other beasts of the type could fly. Possibly a salamander or a behemoth, he guessed, although the likelihood of either of those creatures actually _existing_ was slim.

Honestly, it was probably just a normal bug suffering from some _really_ bad press.

It was a shame the only soul he was willing to chat with had (_probably_) gone and got himself arrested, judging from the wanted posters.

Quirrel had been an annoying presence around the shop since he went and lost that priceless mask of his, but Lemm had to admit, his help with translation was invaluable. And he _supposed_ he couldn’t fault someone for wanting to do some honest work for a while. Goodness knows what that fool managed to get himself involved with to spark a _manhunt_.

The only other bug he would put up with was that silent wanderer, or knight, or whatever; And they had long disappeared.

The mysteries never ceased with _that_ one. He… Wasn’t confident they were still _around_. Even without the husks, Hallownest was still a deadly place.

Maybe he would go out later to see if there was anything he could do for his apparently only _living_ acquaintance. Or not. Probably not. But… _Possibly_ yes.

He did owe him, he thought, that smiley traveller had turned up mere hours after he’d been told he needed to move armed with nothing more than a box saying things like “Let me help you with that, Relic Seeker.” And “You don’t need to pay me back, Relic Seeker.” Well, hah! He _did_ and he _would_.

Wait_… Damn it, _that was, undoubtedly, his _plan_.

The kettle whistled.

Eh. Lemm figured he was probably fine. He still had an awful newspaper to read.

\---

Quirrel did not have the luxury of waking up _slowly_.

This time, he experienced no interval of darkness, no oscillation, no drowsy confusion of unconsciousness.

He simply picked up directly where he had left off, as if his mind had just _paused_.

One second, he was in agony with a hole in his chest, panic in his veins, and a needle heading towards his face.

The next, he _wasn’t_.

Quirrel screamed and flinched in response to a blow that, to him, never came; Terror blooming as his wrists and ankles caught and he found he could hardly _move_, prompting a bewildered, disorientated bout of thrashing that achieved absolutely nothing because _he was tied up_ and, good lord, everything _hurt_.

His balance was completely _off_ and in his panic he almost tipped directly forwards onto his face, saved only by falling still. He was sat half upright, leant heavily against what felt like a lumpy, cloth-covered wall, or a piece of furniture. The way it felt was all he could glean, because he couldn’t see _anything_, nothing but blackness meeting his eyes no matter where he turned. Although, admittedly, he couldn’t turn far.

And there was… What felt like a _branch_ pressed against his other side, helping him stay somewhat vertical.

Even that weak fit of struggling was too much; Quirrel’s joints screamed at him for daring to move, even just a little, muscles too sore and unresponsive to go so quickly or push so hard as if he’d already been involved in some flurry of hard exercise. His brain almost rattled in his head and he felt very, _very_ faint. And there was… Something _off_. Something weird, as if he wasn’t all there, half disconnected from his own body, a numbness chewing at his extremities like some beast, a dead weight.

He was soaked in liquid, too. Dripping as if he’d been dipped in a puddle.

It hissed around him, he could feel it dissolving into the air like water on a hotplate, almost boiling, although not quite _hot_ against his shell.

His soul was so empty it practically dug half into his life, and why wouldn’t it? He was covered in it, although he didn’t quite grasp the enormity of this. To him it was just… Wetness.

He didn’t mind a bit of moisture, in fact his physiology demanded it, but he was _truly_ soaked to the core.

Ghost had gone _completely_ inactive. He could still feel them there, squatting over his brain like a spider as they had been for so long, but they dozed, unmoving, a mere discomfort.

Their silence was possibly the only reason why he hadn’t lapsed _directly_ into a screaming fit.

Alone, _truly_ alone, for the first time in days and he was tied up against a wall.

_To be fair,_ Quirrel reflected, _Ghost was a little hasty when it came to shooting acid out of his face._

_Far too hasty. _

Maybe he was a bit mad about it. Once they were safe, he was going to ban that trick outright. And yell.

He _deserved_ a good yell, didn’t he? He was no longer taking this as well as when they were figuring things out in the waterways.

They had almost killed a bug while wearing his shell.

… Ok, scratch that, he was _extremely_ mad about it.

_Furious_, even.

What an _exciting_ cocktail of emotions! Fear of the unknown served with a heavy smattering of extreme anger over the _very_ known!

He needed to get away somehow, or at least figure out where he was; They had got him into trouble, dangerous trouble, and there was no doubt that his current situation was related somehow.

More carefully this time, as calm as he could manage, Quirrel tested his bonds as best he could.

It was not encouraging. He was already half-curled into a ball but couldn’t move inwards any further; Whatever he’d been tied with laid razor-sharp against the skin of his joints where he pulled against it, holding his limbs in such a way that he could hardly pull them into his shell. For a bug designed to fold into a neat little ball when threatened, it felt like the most unsafe position he’d ever taken in his life, instilling within him a fun, _new,_ kind of fear.

He did not have the soul to warp away, and even if he did, all he would do was bring his bonds _with_ him.

So, he was _blind_ and _defenceless_.

Quirrel was no coward, but he could tell when he was in trouble and the whole situation seemed to be brewing into something very threatening indeed.

It didn’t help that he was experiencing… Almost a sensory _double-vision_, as if there was more of him, piled up off where he couldn’t see. It was an uncomfortable, nauseating feeling, that made him feel almost less inclined to move than the aching did.

Quirrel took a deep breath, trying and failing to slow the increasing rhythm of his heart, thudding hard against his back like a drum.

He remembered being stabbed. All the way through. Yet, apart from the aches and pains, he didn’t feel very _injured_.

Either he _had_ been wounded, and he had lost enough time for it to heal, which was, obviously a _bad_ thing. _(Although, he would have to grit his mandibles and admit losing a few weeks of solid memory was, unfortunately, not _too_ unusual for him.)_

The other option was that he hadn’t been hurt at all, and the whole experience in the Archives was nothing more than a very elaborate false memory, or some other trickery, or even sickness.

_That_ idea was scary for a very different reason, but… He couldn’t rule it out. Not yet. Not with the mind-bendingly weird and rather terrible few days he’d had.

And… He _did_ feel sick.

Everything felt muffled with his face half pressed against a wall, but as he tried to get his bearings, he could hear… Talking. Arguing? Raised voices, at any rate, echoing in from a connected cavern. Familiar voices, but the reverberation of the cave warped them to unrecognizability.

What else? The world around him smelt… Plant-y, and acidic, and… Dusty? _Where was he?_

… And he still couldn’t see. Not even shapes.

Even in the _lowest_ light he could see shapes. _Wyrm_, had he been blinded_?_

No, no… What would he do if he _had_? Out of all the things that grew back, eyes were not one of them! Probably! He was not a biologist! Maybe!

… He didn’t actually know what he’d specialised in.

History?

He was freaking out a little. _No_, more like a lot. He needed to… Stop. Find a distraction.

The fabric covering the wall, or whatever it was, at least, was soft.

It felt pretty nice against his shell, and as Quirrel shifted his neck against it a little, he felt something rub at the join between his mask and face.

It was… His bandanna.

Over his eyes.

Oh, he was a fool; Getting his antenna in a knot over _a wardrobe malfunction. _

… Obviously, being tied up in a random place was also still _very_ bad, but at least his eyes worked. Positives.

In any case, he could not move his arms enough to shift it from his face and instead ended up awkwardly rubbing his mask against the wall in an attempt to remove the errant hat.

There was a lumpy spot somewhere just below his chin that felt like it would do the trick, if he could just angle his head correctly.

Except, the fabric was thick. Thick enough to blunt and soften the wall, if it even _was_ one, to the point where it didn’t really help… At all.

Quirrel felt himself getting more agitated; Trying to stay calm was all well and good but he would really, _really_ like to know where he was.

All he managed to do was twist it so the knot rested awkwardly against the open seam at the bottom of his mask. Dull movements becoming a little more frantic as time wore on; When had he become so _clumsy_?

Rubbing his face about was a useless exercise, Maybe- Maybe if he tucked his elbows in a little, he could-

The branch against his side shifted and a large hand took hold of the bandanna and neatly pulled it off his head.

With his eyes unobscured, Quirrel became aware of two things.

One, it was very, _very_ bright. Painfully so.

Two, the Hollow Knight’s huge porcelain face was looming mere _centimetres_ away from him, their body unnaturally twisted and almost bent double underneath the all-encompassing folds of their cloak to bring them level with his mask, hand hovering next to his face.

They did not breathe, nor make any sound at all.

Quirrel took a very sharp breath at the sight of them, letting it hiss back between his mandibles as they jerked backwards a little in response to his surprise, before leaning in again; Head crooked, almost curious.

He was… Oh wyrm. He was _leaning against them. _

The whole time, he had been leaning on them, so still and cold and solid they were impossible to blindly identify as a bug.

He had not been rubbing his face on a wall or a piece of furniture, he had literally been shoving his mask into the _side of the Hollow Knight._

The burst of embarrassment was at least a short change from feeling completely terrible. They were so close, if they had eyes he reckoned he would be able to glimpse his reflection in them; But the black sockets of their mask gave nothing away.

Then, they gently poked him, the tattered remains of his bandanna hanging from a claw.

_That_ distracted him.

“My _hat_.” Quirrel’s voice cracked and popped like it had never been used. How did he manage to ruin the _only_ piece of clothing he wore?

They reacted then, looking down at the garment in their hand; Pitifully small compared to them, torn and stained as if something had cleaved right through it, and back; Before carefully smoothing out the wrinkles and placing it into his lap.

“… Thanks.” He had questions. So many questions, and _of course_ he did, but unless they had something to write on, the Hollow Knight would not be able to answer them.

He could try, though.

“What happened?” He asked, a horrible croak settling into his voice. “I was… I was stabbed. But I’m uninjured? I shouldn’t be okay. How am I _okay_?”

They seemed to consider his words for a moment, before shifting from that awkward hunched position with a rustle of fabric so loud he could only assume they had been holding it since before he had… Well, Quirrel wasn’t sure if he’d been unconscious or just knocked entirely senseless.

Either way, they hooked their elbow around his shoulders and pulled him closer, squeezing him against their side while fingers as thick as arms patted him gently about the head.

Neither their mask nor body language gave anything away in a fashion that was downright _creepy_, but they were trying to be reassuring_,_ he guessed, so Quirrel forced out a thin chuckle. “Right, I suppose you can’t tell me.” But before he knew it, more words were tumbling out, voice barely staying even, “But you can’t blame me for being a little confused! I… I don’t know how I got here, I don’t even know where ‘here’ _is_, and- And I remember- That _needle_\- And I couldn’t _see_,” His words started to rise in pitch as they came faster, tripping unevenly between sentences as he tried to say too much at once, “I’m tied up, and it’s too- It’s a little painful- I can hardly feel my- My _anything-_ And I think I’m going to be sick, and I- I don’t remember what’s happened and, wyrm, they made me attack _Ogrim_ and some _guards_ and someone almost _died_, and it- It wasn’t my fault but it was _me_ that- _Ah!”_

The Hollow Knight had watched almost impassively as he slowly started to tumble into a full-on breakdown, but as his breaths became too sharp to finish sentences, they burst into motion and grabbed him in a single easy movement, bundling him to their chest in a tight, one-armed hug; Cutting off his babble with a gasp of surprise.

They pressed their chin to his back, knees up for support, and just… Stayed that way, an unmoving statue, swaddled in soft cloth.

They were so big, so, so _big_, that in their grasp Quirrel felt like nothing more than a stuffed doll or a young grub, hanging limp and awkwardly unable to return the gesture.

But there was a worm of doubt. Were they even doing it for _him_? They must have realized he was, for lack of a better word, _hosting_ the little Ghost by now, mustn’t they? That was their _sibling_. Why would they care about _him_?

“I… Hollow Knight, is- This is for Ghost, isn’t it? I’m _sorry_, they’re not awake, it’s just _me_.”

Against his shoulder, they shook their head, squeezing a little tighter and patting his back with those huge fingers.

“O- Oh.” No, they were… They were just being _kind_.

“… Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *POPS OUT OF DEEPNEST*  
Oh god where am I what day is it  
What am I doing here  
_What happened in the Archives_  
Wait I know that one >;3
> 
> I'm about to say a little too much about what exactly I spend my time doing but insect anatomy is a NIGHTMARE and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar or an entomologist. They are terrible upside down creatures that keep their nervous chords in their chests and their hearts in their backs and I have to try and keep that accurate in my writing
> 
> Anyway sorry for taking so very long, I write a few chapters ahead so when I came back a few hours before update time to find a half-finished plothole ridden... Thing... I knew I was in trouble. 
> 
> But wahoo I sure did fix it see nyall next week


	11. Selective Truth

“I will _admit_,” Hornet murmured, “I made a few mistakes.”

They had been arguing for _ages_. Ogrim and the Queen had promised the Hollow Knight that they would only be a few minutes, but a small debate had become a venom-laced shouting match that only begrudgingly turned back into something civil.

Warriors were never meant to settle their scores with _words_, but Ogrim had been throwing his lot into the ring long before Hornet had been born; Long before he had been picked out of the ranks of the guard for his promise, and he would be doing so long afterwards, too. “Would that be before or _after_ employing lethal force in the middle of a non-lethal mission, _ma’am_?” Isma always joked that he had no middle setting, always throwing himself, big and loud, into everything he did; But perhaps she was right, for even the daughter of the Beast had to avert her gaze.

“Ogrim, you’ve made your _point_. I’ve already apologized.”

“Oh, _yes_, you’ve apologized… To _me!_ You cannot just decide to play judge, jury and executioner whenever it _suits_ you!” His sadness had long dried into anger; That same, famous fury that had him terminated from the Pale King’s employ so _very_ long ago, when he could no longer permit the atrocities that piled under his watch to stand any longer.

He would _never_ allow himself into that position again.

He was prepared. He would not stand by and allow the new Queen to act unjustly. And if she refused to tolerate him, then he would simply take his Apprentice, snatch the poor Archivist, and do good _without_ her permission.

“It was necessary!” She held her needle in a vice grip but Ogrim knew she would never turn it upon him.

They were going in circles. The points they were making coming and going over and over, reworded, recycled, neither backing down. “_Was it_? You had none of the facts! Every defence you’ve come up with has been built from what you’ve learnt _since_!”

It was unclear whether she wore a mask or not, horns so long and curved they would be nonsensical to cover, but the compound reflection of light within her shadowed eyes warped in a scowl. “I- That’s _not_\- And does that make them _incorrect_?” One of those eyes, he knew, would be coming up with an extremely _nasty_ bruise after the events in the Archives; Quirrel had proved himself to have _quite_ the right hook.

“Yes! It does! Killing people without reason is _wrong_!”

“Fine! I’m aware!” Hornet threw her hands in the air, her cloak billowing for a moment and flashing a glimpse of yet more limbs coiled underneath; The twisted and strange legs of something sitting on the _cusp_ of divinity, a sharp reminder that he was raising his voice at a demigoddess. “I _know_ it was a foolish thing to do! I just… I can’t allow something to tear down _everything_ we’ve worked for, not so soon! And I… Acted rashly for it.”

Ogrim let himself soften. It would be no good to antagonize her any further, not after he finally squeezed out an admittance of guilt. “_Oh_, ma’am, I understand; But as Queen you will face situations far worse than a bungled arrest.” He gave her a smile, “Politics, for example.”

The mere mention of the vicious parliament assembling in Dirtmouth was enough to make Hornet wince subtlety, yet just as quickly she wilted, letting out a bitter sigh. “It is not the _arrest_ that worries me.”

That little admission perked his interest. She had been almost _positive_ about things before the activity in the City had grown so feverish it had become a concern. Their awful attempt at an arrest had been the first time he’d seen her since; What had happened? “Well, what does? You know I’m always willing to lend you my ear, your Majesty.”

She regarded him for a moment, before breaking her gaze away. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.”

Hm. Well, if it truly bothered her, he would hear about it sooner rather than later. “If you’re very sure, you Majesty.”

Having finally gained a confidant, Hornet turned out to be lousy at disguising what bothered her. However, it was not his place to muse on her troubles; It was his place to assure them, and Ogrim was _very_ good at that. “And, I can assure you, being able to admit your own wrongdoing already puts you _far_ above your father.” He had to force himself not to smirk as she perked subtly at the complement.

“Truly?”

He nodded, “Truly. Our dear King was wise, I will admit that, but not wise enough to see his own mistakes as anything but necessary.” Ogrim paused, bringing a claw to his chin. “They say he had _foresight_, although I cannot tell you if it’s true. I imagine to such a being, everything would be merely a step towards what has been seen, regardless of the consequences.”

With their little argumen- Ah, with their little _discussion_ over, there was no point hiding where the Hollow Knight and their guest couldn’t hear them. But, as, he turned back towards the exit of the cavern, a thought crossed his mind, giving him pause. “Ma’am, can _you_…?”

“No.” He could _hear_ her eyes rolling “I cannot see the future.”

“Hm.” Ogrim murmured, “I think there is a difference between ‘foresight’ and directly _seeing_ the future.”

“If there is, I can do neither.” With the _disagreement_ firmly at an end, she sheathed her needle. “Why?”

“Oh, well, you turned up to aid me in battle _very_ quickly, that’s all, and it’s a large building…”

“The workers of the Hive taught much of their language,” She said, “They have specific movements to quickly communicate distance and location, and the Hollow Knight has taken to it quite well. They simply _told_ me where you were.”

That was news to him. Ogrim knew little of the Hive beyond the Pale King’s teachings... The teachings being that they were simple _animals_. “Language? I was under the impression the bees danced.”

Hornet bristled. “_It doesn’t matter what it looks like_, it works.”

At her words, Ogrim couldn’t help but chuckle at the image of the stoic Knight executing some serious, boogie-based manoeuvres. They tapped their fingers to music, sometimes, when it was loud and upbeat and exciting; And they had a habit of stopping to silently watch buskers for hours at a time as they did their rounds of the Dirtmouth streets, but someday he hoped he would find something that would _really_ get them moving.

It was a shame he had lost his record collection after being cast out from the castle. The Pale King hadn’t exactly given him time to collect his belongings; And the situation in the Kingdom had fallen apart so soon afterwards… Isma’s promise to bring him his things… Well, she was forced to break it, in the end.

“_Wait_. The Hollow Knight!” Hornet gasped, abruptly enough to make her Defender jump, lost in thought as he was. “Oh _blast_, we’ve left them alone with _that_\- Mm-” She stuttered, catching Ogrim’s frown. “_With_ _the_ _Archivist_ for ages!”

Ogrim blinked, before realizing the source of her concern. “Oh, don’t worry, I told them to come and find us immediately if he wakes up.”

Hornet gave him a look. “Ogrim,” She started slowly, “How often do they _actually_ obey your orders?”

“Not very- _Oh_.” Ah. Unless it was important, the Hollow Knight did as they wished.

Through upbringing or design, he couldn’t tell which, the Hollow Knight was compelled to do as the ruler of Hallownest commanded, no matter the task, no matter the order, even if it wasn’t _truly_ an order at all; The compulsion didn’t care for details.

When they were first recovering, the obligation to continue their purpose had driven them back to that accursed temple over and over, throwing themselves into the shattered chains as if the broken seals would reignite in their presence and take them back.

Once Hornet had been officially crowned, they had spent hours brainstorming the perfect command to give them freedom. Not just her and Ogrim, no, somehow, she had managed to find philosophers and sociologists and goodness knows what else surviving in the ruins of the Kingdom, recently cured scholars with knowledge of their fields so fresh it was hard to believe they had been rotting for a century.

With the combined efforts of many bugs and one carefully-worded order, the Hollow Knight gained the same choice over their actions as any bug on the street. _True_ free will.

A fantastic gift to give! Except, having suddenly gained the ability to disobey… They _revelled_ in it.

Never when it was _important_, no; They were as committed to their job and their friends as anyone could be, but little things, inconsequential things, things they personally found unnecessary or just plain didn’t want to do, they simply… _Didn’t_.

Ogrim sucked a slow breath in between his mandibles. “_Wyrm_, we should get back.”

\---

“Aww, that’s adorable!”

“What the- No it’s not! What in Hallownest are you two _doing_?”

Quirrel dragged his face from where he’d been dozing. The Hollow Knight practically seeped an aura of calm and he was _tired_.

The shock had worn to exhaustion, as it often did, and he couldn’t be bothered to struggle or panic any more. They were… Comfortable. They did not breathe, but there was still a slow rise and fall to their body, and they outright refused to put him down, anyway, so why not go with it? 

It was a nice hug. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him.

“Hugging, you Majesty, what does it look like?” Sassing royalty was not a clever move, but he wasn’t feeling particularly sharp at that moment. “It’s a nice break from being stabbed, don’t you think?”

“You’re okay!” Ogrim, at least, was delighted. “Oh, I thought you’d never wake up.”

“A bit of wit proves nothing, Defender.” Hornet muttered, “And it’s hardly been an _hour_.”

“It felt like a very long hour.”

Neither of them seemed to be particularly hostile anymore, but what confused Quirrel the most was the timespan. Only an hour? He had recovered from impalement… In an _hour_? “… Weren’t you two just trying to kill me?”

Ogrim blinked, “On the contrary, _I_ was not trying to kill you.” Hornet grumbled in the background at the bite edging his voice. “However, you _did_ die. It was… Quite horrific.”

“I get the _point_, Defender.” The Queen growled.

“I… What?” Quirrel was too exhausted to be polite. “No, I’m very alive.”

“You are _now_.” Hornet said, her words betraying no emotion, “The only reason you’re here instead of burning inside an acid pit is because the Defender stayed my hand.” A bitter note crept into her voice, “I cannot tell if you are villain or victim, but I can say if you knowingly allowed the Teacher to archive you than you truly are a _mad_ bug.”

“Ma’am!” Ogrim hissed, “Not so blunt!”

“Why not? This isn’t going to get any _better_.”

Her words chased away the fragile sense of calm instilled by the Hollow Knight until it felt like he’d never stopped panicking at all. _Him?_ _Archived_? No, he was still too tired, too confused. “_Excuse_ _me_?”

“_You came back to life after I killed you_.” Hornet said, with more emphasis this time; Her tone of voice betraying a sense of disgust.

Hardly allowing him time to react, she continued; “I’ve heard of the feats the Teacher achieved with her magic. But I never suspected she’d gone so far as to preserve her own assistant in such a way.” Something resembling fury crept int her voice as she began to pace. “They called her a _savant_, a spellcaster only topped by the King and the Weavers, but _this_? I cannot believe this… _This_… Special _blasphemy!_ What were you two even thinking? I- Equipping you with a sealed mask, I understand, but _immortality_? Or some… _Twisted version_ of it? It’s unholy! Do you have any _idea_\- Can you _truly_\- _Ugh!_” She threw her hands in the air. “If that bug were here, I would give her a piece of my mind!”

_What?_ No, no, no, no, _no_; She had to be mistaken. He was as mortal as anyone else; And the king had explicitly forbidden his Lady from working any further on that kind of enchantment.

Yet a horrible feeling crept into the back of Quirrel’s mind as he finally caught up and the facts came together.

The timespan, the impossibly quick healing, _the harsh memory of a needle speeding towards his head._ It had to be _untrue_, the reality didn’t bear thinking about.

Half in denial, he gasped in disbelief, “Wait, _no_, that isn’t possible. The Madame would _never_.”

_But... She ignored every other order to stop work on something, didn’t she? _

“Were you not aware?” The anger dropped to an accusatory tone to something almost sad in an instant. She stepped closer, until they were almost eye-level, his position in the Hollow Knight’s lap giving Quirrel extra height on her. So close, he could see a web of cracks spreading from one eye, the mask of her face hiding swelling underneath. “The same magic preventing the Archive from degrading keeps _you_ from dying.”

Monomon _wouldn’t_, would she?

“Your Majesty, you must be mistaken.” That feeling of sickness had intensified. An icy, twisting worry that pulled at his throat and weighed heavy against his guts until he wanted nothing more than to curl as tight as he could until it passed. “What you’re describing wasn’t… An easy enchantment to perform, I- I would have noticed, at the very most I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“And are you _sure_?” Hornet asked, pointedly. “I did not imagine what I saw. How complete is _your_ memory, Wastelander?” The bite at the source of his amnesia stung. “Are you really the same bug now as you were all those years ago?”

Quirrel couldn’t find it within him to respond to that one, and simply averted his gaze.

She was right. He couldn’t be sure.

“Now, now. Let’s not drag things down! Everything’s _fine_ now!” Ogrim’s jovial persona had come back as quickly as it left, yet it couldn’t hide the note of desperation in his voice.

“No,” Quirrel said, “_Let’s_.”

He steeled himself, and then, his voice coming out almost as a whisper, asked “Are you sure I didn’t simply survive? How hard did you try?”

“I destroyed your brain.” Hornet said, “And if you give me a reason to, _I will not hesitate to do it again.”_

\---

Persuading the Hollow Knight to put him down turned out to be a difficult endeavour.

They were less willing to release Quirrel then the spiders he’d had a run-in with in Deepnest, and they were trying to _eat_ him.

… Walking directly into a web, admittedly, had not been one of his greatest moments; But how was he to know they’d spun one across a doorway?

Oh, but if he really _wouldn't_ die, if they _had_ eaten him- If he had never escaped- Would he just keep coming back? Stuck in the web? An _infinite_ meal? _Eaten over and over?_

A horrifying thought, and one he quickly tried to ignore.

The mindless, emotionless, _will-less_ vessel project had turned out to be an _extreme_ failure, but in his defence, the light of Pale King influenced _every_ bug in his vicinity. Everything he said, everything he did, it all seemed so wonderful; _Such a great suggestion, your majesty, we’ll get on that right away, your majesty,_ until he left, and the reality crept back in. 

And by then, it was a little too late; And for some bugs, the effect never left at all.

… The Royal Retainers were downright _creepy_ for it.

With the King around, there was no way to tell if the Hollow Knight was _truly_ hollow; Any bug left in his vicinity long enough would conform exactly to what he expected them to be.

Quirrel had _one_ complete memory of the King, and it was of obediently following Monomon and his Royal Highness around, writing things down, because that’s what the King _expected him to do._

“Why are you being like this? Do you want a bribe? I am _not_ bribing you.” The Hollow Knight was holding on so tightly that Quirrel was surprised he hadn’t started squeaking like a soft toy.

It was… Hard to be freaked out in the middle of such a ridiculous scene, at least. The overt hostility and the horror were dulled by the… Family argument.

“You cannot keep him!” Hornet made a move forwards but the Hollow Knight merely slid her away with a foot. Ogrim was out of sight _(If not very much in smell)_ But wherever he was, he was audibly stifling laughter. “This is serious! This is a serious situation- And I- I will- I am your _employer_! You _work for me_! I’ll fire you!”

As demeaning as it was to be fought over like a stuffed doll, it was not a situation in which the Queen could stab him again.

Also, it _was_ pretty funny.

“I’m fine up here.” Quirrel quipped, watching in cautious amusement as Hornet rounded on him.

“Do not _encourage_ them, Archivist!” Needle drawn, she advanced, ready to drive her weapon directly through his face again, no doubt, making Quirrel flinch. “I’ve had your head once, I’ll do it- _Oof_!” And then the Hollow Knight _kicked_ her. Beautiful. She deserved that.

“_FINE_. But if you get tired of carrying him, I am not helping you.” She moved until she was out of sight, a majority of the room blocked by being half pressed into the Hollow Knight’s bulk. “Let’s go, we can walk and talk.”

“Wait, wait. Go?” Having to travel through the kingdom again would not be a huge setback, but that only depended on where they were taking him, and _wyrm_ he just wanted the whole situation to be over as fast as possible. “No, I need to get to the Ancient Basin, you aren’t taking me anywhere.”

“On the contrary, yes I am.” She pointed upwards. “All of our infrastructure is in Dirtmouth, and need I remind you that you’ve been _arrested_?”

“Do I not deserve the benefit of the doubt? You just _murdered_ me! And I cannot stress how much I need to get down there.”

“You survived, didn’t you?” Hornet clicked her mandibles dismissively. “And stop being so melodramatic. Everyone gets murdered eventually.”

“_No_ _they_ _don’t_!”

She took no notice, “Look. Responsible or not, you committed a crime. _A severe one_. Do you have any idea how hard it has been to bring _laws_ back to Hallownest?”

“But-” He was getting a little desperate. “Ma’am, you don’t know the whole story.”

She had moved out of sight, making it even harder to tell her intention. “_Well_, then, tell me on the way.”

Grimacing, he added, “I… _Also_ do not know the whole story…”

The Hollow Knight had not moved to get up, but they switched their grip from _‘hatchling clutching a toy’ _to _‘hatchling clutching a toy but in the crook of their arm’_, finally letting Quirrel see something other than their cloak without wildly swivelling his neck.

Now he could look around properly, no longer blindfolded or pressed into someone’s chest, he found they were sitting in some strange, stone-floored gazebo.

It was surrounded by spiked vines, through which the Hollow Knight must have slipped impossibly through to enter, and where there weren’t vines, he could see flowers larger than stags blooming fat from just about everywhere; Extending into the distance like a forest, and radiating a sweet perfume so thick it was almost visible. 

The scene was familiar. Obviously, he had been there; He’d been _everywhere_ in his life before the Wastelands, but his memory was being frustratingly uncooperative; Refusing to even give a hint.

If he fell on those thorns… Would he be stuck, constantly re-impaling as he continuously healed and awoke, trying to escape?

No. Nope. _Not thinking about it._

The Hollow Knight’s grip left more room for movement, so Quirrel shifted his legs until they were somewhat comfortably folded underneath him. It was the best he could do, but better than balancing on the end of his abdomen.

Whoever had bound him_ (probably Hornet_) had tied his legs poorly enough that he could probably slip enough off to get up and hobble away, if the Hollow Knight ever designed to put him down. Quirrel suspected it wasn't done through kindness, merely through misjudging how thin his ankles were. 

His arms, however, would be a little harder to circumvent. He could hardly see them under the… Silk?

Yes, definitely silk. Only the product of the Weavers could have such a razor-sharp gleam to it, and she had really gone all-out to keep him from getting any use out of them.

That was fair, he wasn’t exactly known for his kicking prowess.

Or his unarmed ability at all, actually. Although, it had been said he could throw a good punch when necessary. 

_He still felt sick and… Horrified, scared and strange, but he could ignore it. _

Not forever, but long enough to deal with the situation at hand.

The first port of call was clearing things up enough to be released; Despite the odds, Quirrel had never been to _jail_ before, and he didn’t want to ruin his streak.

It helped that having a solid goal in mind stopped his thoughts from wandering, as they so often did. “Why are you even sparing me? What changed?”

Hornet was standing between a split in the vines that must have been the exit, and as she turned to answer the question, she flashed her needle; A subtle threat. “It has been… _Pointed out_ to me that I did not have all the facts, and that what I was doing was… Cruel.” The Defender puffed his chest a little at that, opting to sit by the Hollow Knight; Legs crossed in a manner that seemed impossible for a bug his size. “That, and you turned out to be _less_ dangerous alive than dead. I intend not to make the same mistake again.”

_Less _dangerous…? Ghost_._

_Of course. _

What had they _done_? “… What do you mean?”

She shifted her blade. “Are you aware of what a corpse creeper is, Archivist?”

“A… Corpse creeper?” Those horrible beasts from Deepnest that burst from of the bodies of husks and… _Oh_. That ignored feeling of fear crept back into his shell and coated his insides like ice; Refusing to leave no matter how much he tried to push it away. “That is an _incredibly_ scary question to ask someone that just died, but yes, I am.”

“Considering you are infected, which, need I remind you is far _worse_ than hosting a mere parasite, perhaps you can imagine what we were dealing with.” He could, and he didn’t like it.

Also, he _wasn’t_ infected.

“Don’t worry!” Ogrim chirped, “No one got injured!”

Hornet turned to glare at him. “_Untrue_.”

He coughed and corrected himself. “_Only_ her Majesty got injured! And I cannot say she didn’t bring it upon herself.”

The Queen’s hand lifted to unconsciously rub at her injury. “_Hmph_.”

Hornet sighed, then, catching herself, she pulled her hand from her face and pointed at Quirrel, crossing the gazebo in only a few steps until she was as close as the Hollow Knight would allow. “Listen to me. You are _infected_. I don’t care if you refuse to believe it. I don’t care if it isn’t the _old_ affliction. And I don’t care if you had _nothing_ to do with it. The fact of the matter is _you. Are. Infected_.” She punctuated her words with forceful taps of her weapon against the ground. “And that makes you a _danger_ to my kingdom.” She left no room to argue as she pointed the needle, not caring how he flinched. “You will explain _why_ and _how_ and if you _claim_ you can’t, I _swear_ I will-”

Ogrim grabbed the weapon and forced it downwards, “-_Find out some other way,_ that’s what you were going to say, _isn’t it_, your Majesty?”

Despite the blatant ‘good guard, bad guard’ routine they were pulling on him, Quirrel couldn’t help but feel a little bad for her.

What was one to do when the disease that had toppled a kingdom finally came to an end… _Only to be seemingly replaced by another?_

‘Seemingly’, because, _he absolutely wasn’t infected_.

… And, obviously, that didn’t excuse _murdering_ him, but that was a completely different issue he didn’t _quite_ feel like getting into.

“I’m _really_ not infected, I just, I’m…” Even if he couldn’t find a way to _prove_ it, it was clear he wasn’t sick. The infected were the type to go mad of their own volition and attack everyone around them! He did not wear pustules, his eyes and mind were clear, no voice whispered to him to commit atrocities, and… And he was… Oh _wyrm_, he was deluding himself, wasn’t he? “W-Well,” Quirrel stuttered, “Even if I am a _little_ infected, at least I’m the only one, yes?”

“You’re _not_.” Hornet’s words dripped with contempt. Something halfway between fury and fear seething through her voice as she reiterated, “You’re _not_ the _only_ one infected.”

The tension created by her words was palpable.

The Hollow Knight straightened where they sat almost imperceivably, head swivelling to focus on her and her _alone_.

Quirrel, himself, _would_ have responded. He would have said _‘What?’_ Or _‘No!’_ Or gasped, or generally communicated his shock in any way at all except he never really got the _chance_, because _Ogrim reacted first._

The Defender shot from where he’d been sitting, a picture of lazy comfort that only existed to fool the viewer into believing him too relaxed at act quickly, eyes wide and arms akimbo in the manner of a bug who just realised they’d been kept out of a big, _big_ secret.

“Ma’am? _Excuse_ _me_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hardest part of this whole deal making it clear these bugs are all, individually, very competent, they're just in one hell of a confusing situation.
> 
> But as for the chapter itself... Hm, seems like there's more happening than it first appeared!  
Looks like Hornet's given into stress a little, no wonder she's made such... Interesting decisions lately.  
And there are other infectees? Who'd've thunk it? Obviously, not Ogrim... I guess Hornet elected not to tell him! Shame Ghost is in nap town and leaving Quirrel to deal with all this alone  
Also I hope you're not tired of Quirrel's POV because he's supremely easy to write and I need all the help I can get
> 
> Thank you all again for the kind reviews, I'm really enjoying myself over here :3


	12. Interval 2: News and Nightmares

The Dirtmouth market wound down as it always did.

As the skies darkened and the air grew cold, the crowds slowly dispersed; Bugs of all kinds slipping back into their homes under the pale light of the lumaflies.

Once the sales died down, the vendors packed up their stock, closed up their stalls and slowly filtered out as well.

It hadn’t been a great day for the newsstand, nor for the Salesbug that ran it.

For her, the market day had been slower than it had ever been before. Not a huge deal, _sure_, not every day was a winner; But unsold stock quickly became lost Geo in the paper business. 

_Paper_... She was of old Hallownest, and last she checked, paper was considered a _useless_ format for storing information; Flimsy, impermanent, _cheap_, nothing like the unwavering stone and acid favoured by the upper classes. Of course, those bugs would never need to go to the _effort_ of carving words into stone or weaving them into vials, not while they had people to do it for them.

The printing press had been a new invention, then. A way to streamline writing in a manner that just didn’t _exist_ for any other format; It was convenient. She liked it.

She supposed that’s why she took the job.

The Salesbug packed up the little pile of unsold newspapers as she mused.

Well; She wouldn’t call them _‘news’_ papers, the headlines were ridiculous and the articles even more so, but they were all Hallownest had at the moment, and goodness knew, they sold better than anything else she stocked, and in the end, Geo was Geo.

Either way, it didn’t matter. They were useless now, and by the next morning they would be outdated as the presses spun out something new.

The Salesbug pulled the top issue from the pile to read as she worked. She always kept an issue tucked away for a regular; Some surly, bearded old bug that had been patroning her stall from the day it had opened, but for the first time, he just hadn’t turned up.

She wasn’t worried, but she hoped he wouldn’t make a habit of it; She’d only _just_ convinced him to speak more than a few words to her.

It was nice to find someone else that thought the newspaper was a pile of rubbish; But she didn’t exactly have much choice when it came to selling the thing. After all, she was technically _employed_ by the printing house.

It was a shame, though. The headline that day was a real doozy.

** _‘The Black Plague of Deepnest! Kidnappings, Disappearances, Conspiracies and More: An exclusive interview with the royal sentry that saw it all!’_ **

Underneath that, the front page was dominated by what appeared to be an illustration of a spider made of… _Oil_?

It looked like somebody had scraped a blob of dried old lubricant from a lift chain and stuck legs to it.

She wondered if the Queen would need to come out and publicly refute this one. She’d been forced to do so a few months before when they claimed the Hollow Knight was an _‘infected sleeper agent’,_ whatever that was.

… And a few months before that, when they claimed Deepnest was plotting to hollow out the earth beneath Hallownest and sink it.

… And a few months _more_ before that, where they claimed Deepnest was sending bugs up to steal and eat grubs.

The bugs running the paper seemed to have a bit of a _thing_ against Deepnest. The latest batch of rubbish was nothing new for them, and probably nothing to get too worked up about.

There were rumours that the printing house was working on a deal to sell a few of their presses, meaning soon they could get out of this… _Reputable news drought_ and return to business as usual.

_She hoped. _

The Salesbug shrugged, flipping the paper into a box with the rest and hefting it under her arm, using a second set of limbs to close and lock the newsstand as she left.

_The unsold issues held a bright future as kindling_, she reckoned, _and it would be cruel of her to withhold that from them. _

As usual, she was the last one out; But unusually, this night, she didn’t find herself quite alone as she made the trek back towards the well.

Rustling eyes in the darkness moved to follow her, and the next morning, for the first time, she did not return.

\---

Ghost awoke to blazing light.

The world ahead of them spread wide and bright and featureless, nothing but raging gold and deep sunset silver as far as their eyes could see, mottled with swirling white and crackles of acid green.

_It was blinding,_ yet it all felt entirely _unreal_, gritty and distorted; The world around them engulfed in a flickering, grainy static that seemed so strange yet so… _Ordinary_ at the same time, as if it had always been there, as if they were unable to take notice of it.

_And they didn’t_. Because their mind was taken up almost immediately by how they _felt_.

They hurt. Their insides twisted and knotted even before their mind had caught up with their body. It was a… A feeling_. An emotion._ A _terrible_ one, so strong and intense that it grasped their mind and burnt into them _physically_; Cloying within their throat and chest and crawling through their form to strangle them, icy claws sinking into their head, their eyes, all parts of them until even their _joints_ hurt; Some kind of miserable, spectral _pain_ that started within and radiated out.

They could hardly feel anything else, forcing them to focus on the feeling alone. They had become fuzzy, disconnected from their own form, floating far away from their body where they could hardly detect anything other than that pure mental agony, yet beyond that they were surrounded and filled with some terrible _pressure_, packing them in, pulling them together and holding them tighter than anything had any _right_ to. They couldn’t _move_. Each breath straining their binds to their limits, leaving them to struggle weak and limbless against the ground; Like an overfed grub.

There was a pervasive _wrongness_ to their form. From the length to the size to the way their muscles tugged under the skin, it all felt_ incorrect_ in a way they had no ability to place.

They wanted to _scream_. To wail, to writhe_._ To wrap their arms about their chest until they felt better but they _couldn’t_. They could only stay and endure.

_Why_? Why were they feeling that way? What had happened? Their memory was nothing but a blur, stopping and starting, cutting and fading, ending dead within a black pit of _void_ the moment they tried to recall what happened after-

_After_…

Oh. _They had got Quirrel killed._

_There it was._ The feeling hurt more, now. It was an emotion, after all. _An unfamiliar one_, but at least its presence made some kind of sense. They were sad; No, they were _distraught,_ and it hurt them; Packing their mind with guilt and wracking their body with sorrow, so alone and blind and restricted they were forced to wallow in it. In how horrid it felt. In how bad they were.

_They deserved it_, they realized. _They _deserved_ to feel bad._

After all, _they had killed their friend._

They had stumbled into danger and Quirrel had _died_.

No, not even that, they had run _headfirst_ into it. They had panicked like a fool, flailing and thrashing until someone finally scored a killing blow; As they had done so many times before.

For so long they had relied on being able to just… _Come back_. An impossible ability to resurrect, to snap awake on a bench and charge back into the fray undaunted. They had never questioned it, it was a fact of life for them, second chances were always abound.

_But real bugs weren’t like that. _

_Real bugs stayed dead._

They had seen it before. Goodness knew, they had _killed_ before; And checked back over and over to ensure nothing had changed because, for a while, they were never sure if it would stick.

They had lost _friends_ before, too. They had stood over Tiso’s corpse, dashed on the rocks aside his hopes of greatness. Every now and again, they checked back when they were in the area. They weren’t that invested in him, but it would have been nice to see him achieve his goals.

But _Cloth_… _Oh_, Cloth_._

Ghost had waited so _long_ for her. They sat by her body for hours, they searched every spot they’d seen her rest, over and over. Looking, waiting.

They had even spoken to her _ghost_. Or rather, it had spoken to them, but they had only seen it as her waiting shade; Ready to be reclaimed. When it disappeared, did they feel happy? Expectant? _Anything?_

They just… _They just hadn’t understood._

The sheer finality of death was not something they had ever faced. They hadn’t mourned. They hardly felt anything at all about it. After all, _they_ had never stayed down; Why would they imagine her to be any different?

_They simply sat and waited for her to come back_.

But she wasn’t! She was _never_ coming back! And neither was Tiso, and- And Neither was- Was _Quirrel_-

Something knotted and twisted within their throat, choking them, forcing them to draw sharp, shuddering breaths around it.

_Their eyes burnt._

Something was breaking within them and they didn’t know how to make it _stop_.

_They deserved this_. They ruined everything! They deserved to be _trapped_ and _blind_ and _sad_. They were bad, and, they were _awful,_ an awful friend and a worse god.

They wished they could go _back_. They wanted to _stop thinking!_ Like before, like when they were new; When they felt _nothing_.

They needed to stop. Stop thinking. Stop remembering. They felt like they were crumbling, knotting, melting and _they needed to stop. Stop. **Stop!**_

Ghost swallowed the great lump in their throat, shoving the feelings down, _down_, **_down_**, where they’d be no bother, where they could be forgotten and ignored and trampled over until they didn’t hurt anymore, turning their attention outwards as they went, scrambling for a distraction.

_Where were they? _They felt weight and breath and limbs, distant but there, they were not truly disembodied; They held _some_ kind of form.

And what kind of forgotten place had they sunk into, to see only _light_?

They felt… So weak. Tied so tight, layer upon layer, each twitch exhausted them; Bindings digging deep and painful into fragile flesh. They could hardly _reach_ for their power, let alone _utilise_ it, each attempt leaving them panting with sheer exertion, their body screaming with fatigue, pinned and paralysed and pained and _useless_.

Their soul was dry, scraping the bottom, and that great well of void within them was all but _spent_; As if they had already tossed it all out in some great flurry of activity, leaving them with nothing but their body to work with.

Even their senses were muted, they didn’t need eyes to see and yet _everything_ was light; No matter _where_ they turned. And the only sound that of their struggling.

But still, they _tried_ and _tried_, reaching and pulling at the world around them, lashing and wriggling and struggling as hard as they could, as long as they could, until they felt fit to pass back out. 

They were hopeless, _foolish_, like a hatchling trying to pull themselves from bed with the carpet, only gaining a mess for their struggles, if anything at all.

After what felt like hours, but only probably counted in minutes, they fell still; Sucking in desperate breath after breath.

_Wait_. Since when did they _breathe_? It felt as natural as anything, yet… It was not natural to _them_. There was no need. They were no longer… _Quirrel was_…

Ghost struck that thought down before it could form. They were breathing on their own. _Who cared?_

Even so, they couldn’t stop; They had no mouth, no voice, they couldn’t even track where the air was _going_, it merely shuddered in, shuddered out, slowing as they came down from their struggles.

They weren’t sure how much more they had in them.

Once upon a time their energy was limitless, their drive unending. But now… _Now_…

_Now, there was clearly something very _wrong_ with them._

Ghost knew they bought this upon themselves.

They gathered their strength. Resolving to give one last go before they gave up and sank into despair as they so obviously _should_, terrible creature that they were, and began to strain once more.

They pulled hard at their bonds, twisting their entire body as they went; Limbs writhing, back arching, and then, with a hard push against the ground below they rolled entirely over to face the floor with enough force to smack their face hard against the stone.

The… _Floor_.

They were not blinded by light.

They were _looking at the sky. _

_Amazing observation there_, they chided internally. _Truly, those were the skills that kept them alive in Hallownest. _

Hah. That was a _joke_! Because they were so, so lousy at staying alert and alive that they _managed to die when they weren’t even themselves. _

The ground of _where_, though?

Ghost allowed their head to slip to the side against the marble-smooth ground. They peered down, and around, but nothing seemed to be there. They… Couldn’t even see _themselves_, even when straining their neck until their chin touched their chest. They should have been able to see their own body, yet… Their inability to do so barely warranted a thought, their mind skipping over it as if it were no concern at all.

The world started to appear, crawling haltingly into view from the clouds as if it were carried upon a scuttling horde of spiders; Incoherent and fuzzy, scattered in static.

It was still bright, even when they weren’t staring directly upwards anymore. Yet, from the unfocused landscape resolving into view, they could just make out the golden architecture of-

Of _Godhome_.

No. _No_! The realization hit them like a charging stag, they couldn’t be _back_. They had just escaped!

They wriggled with renewed purpose, trying desperately to get a better look around, to pinpoint their location, maybe even spot the telltale giveaways of a _dream_, but there was nothing familiar in sight.

_Was_ it a dream? As a god they could enter and exit and create dreams with impunity, they could reach out and twist the fabric with a mere thought to create whatever they wanted, yet this place… It felt so _real_, they could not pierce it, even if they had the power to do so.

The Dream Realm was _theirs_, stolen from the jaws of the Radiance herself and Godhome sat in the centre of it, they should have known where they were; They should have sensed it, they had been swimming through those halls for months, the mere feel of it was second nature to them, why weren’t they able to _sense_ it? _How hadn’t they noticed?_

They turned themselves over, trying to catch some sort of landmark but instead they found themselves face to face with a great sea of clouds; Golden, soul-laced water flowing and flickering with abandon.

With new purpose, they started to drag themselves closer with a laborious, writhing motion.

They only seemed to move in fits and starts; For entire minutes of struggling, they would barely budge an inch, yet every now and again they would suddenly find themselves meters closer to the shore.

This inconsistency passed unnoticed, as so many others already had. They merely needed to _get_ to that golden sea.

When they arrived, they craned their whole body, torso lifting off the ground with a great straining of muscles; Already tired and aching and pulling, all to stare into the waters. To finally see.

_Yet the thing staring back was enough to make them _wish_ they could scream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh! I'm sure this is all fine and dandy.  
Don't worry about it. 
> 
> Also, just a small cameo from my personal HK OC up there, running the newsstall. She'll be fine. Probably. Won't be named in-story but hey, fun easter egg there to anyone that knows about her. 
> 
> Anyway, leeeeeetle update from me, while I'm here...  
I'm still writing, never stopped, but the next chapter might be a few months coming becuase I managed to obliterate my entire chapter backlog over Christmas, which hit my motivation pretty hard.  
Not enough to make me stop, this is way too fun, but enough to slow me down.  
Now, I know what you're thinking, _'Pinky, how did you manage that? It can't be too bad, it's not like you write eight chapters ahead.'_  
The answer is Pure Hubris and also I do so that was a lot of work lost! :( Anyway, I'll need to reconsolidate that, which'll take a bit, RIP to me. 
> 
> So... See ya'll then! :3!


	13. When Will You Learn?

_It was them_. The thing in the water… Was them. 

Their face stood clear and sharp, the rest smudging and blurring into the flickering static of the world around them as if the waters couldn’t hold that much of their image; But that was still enough, _more than enough_, to disgust them.

Despite the fact they had to lift their entire torso from the ground to see it, the reflection seemed much closer than it could possibly be, bulging just under the surface, unshadowed and bright as the sky above, allowing them to pick out every sordid detail.

Staring up at them was an incomplete and writhing caricature of their former glory, a mere shadow of the creature that once roamed the halls of Godhome.

Gone was the flowing, smoky serpent; Billowing and revered. Instead they were a dark stain upon the water, skinny and tangled, sluglike and _oozing,_ their very image staining the liquid black like leaking ink.

They were wrapped by thick, glowing green threads, squeezing and cutting from all angles; Pinning them, shearing through them, their amorphous form bulging over and around the bindings yet never breaking free.

Their face was flat and round, studded with more eyes than they could ever need, pale and watery and _bulging_, trembling disgustingly within their sockets like freshly shed raindrops with every movement of their head.

The eyes were placed almost randomly, scattered only vaguely in the correct area, twisted and knarled horns jutting between them like thorns from a vine.

It wasn’t them yet… It unmistakably _was_. Twisted and wrong, a Wyrm sucked of its power, it couldn’t be… Yet it was. _Why_?

They stared at themselves. What else could they do? It was a monster, _they_ were a monster, horrifying and fascinating and disgusting, staring from the sea below.

The air shuddered around them. _“**What have you wrought, Vessel**?” _Godhome asked, the words coming from around them and within them at once, shaking through the hollow spaces of their body and making the expanse of water tremble with heavy ripples, giving the terrifying illusion of their reflection climbing up and out towards them.

But _only_ an illusion, they thought.

_Until their reflection broke the water. _

_“I asked,”_ The reflection said, clawed and unbound hands grasping the shore with a swiftness they could only dream of, hauling it out until they were face to terrified face.

It moved like a marionette, unreal and inorganic, and as it spoke, its face warped; Eyes stretching and bulging as if there were mouthparts hidden underneath the slick flesh.

** _“What have you done?”_ **

\---

The room had gone still, Hornet’s jaws snapping shut as she realized what she’d just let slip.

The words had come out unbidden, _no one was supposed to know_, but that… Annoying, stupid, _foolish_ bug had given _everything_ away!

A new infection! All shiny and out of the packaging and ready to tear down her Kingdom so soon and she didn’t know how or why or where it had even come from beyond that terrible void that had _oh so kindly_ risen up to swallow half of Hallownest unprompted.

Ogrim was waiting for an answer, but she tried to ignore him, tried to pretend she hadn’t kept something so terrible and important from her knights, as if she could even _look_ him in the eye after letting such a thing slip.

The Hollow Knight’s stare was no more appealing, a cold and hard fury, words unnecessary in the face of their feelings.

Many emotions were still hard for them, expressing them harder still; Yet anger seemed _easy_ for them to grapple.

She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

Who to look at then, other than the _source_ of her frustration?

“You are _not_ the only one.” Her voice shook. Maybe all of her was shaking. “You’re the only one that’s capable of holding a _conversation_.” _Admitting_ it, admitting that she’d allowed such a thing to occur in _her_ Kingdom, it made her throat burn; The feeling spreading to her chest and to her limbs until she _brimmed_ with it.

Ogrim stepped into her face, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her sharply towards him, yet still holding her at arm’s length like some untamed beast. “How long?” His breath was harsh, his tone harsher still, “How long have you _known_?”

He was _furious_. What was that idiom? About the anger of a good bug? Never had some foolish saying felt so relevant. “Ogrim-”

“Ma’am. _How_ _long_?”

“Three days.” She breathed, “It started three days ago.”

There was a quiet intake of breath to her left.

_The Archivist_. His stupid, confused form loomed from the crook of the Hollow Knight’s arm like a living symbol; Her failure to keep things contained and safe and _secret,_ in the flesh.

She was a fool to expect any answers from him. What could he _know_? What could he _possibly_ know? He’d proven himself to be nothing more than one of the Teacher’s unholy projects, perfectly crafted to _annoy_ her.

She needed to explain herself, but the temptation to dance around the issue for a few more blessed seconds seemed so much more_ appealing_.

She would bring the Archivist up to speed, simply to ensure he’d keep his mouth shut later.

After all, Hornet did not have the patience for _questions_.

“… Let me start from the beginning.”

“_Hornet_.” Ogrim never used her name unless it was serious. As friendly as they were, he tied himself to tradition. “Do not _stall_.”

She jabbed her finger in the direction of the Archivist, still bundled up like a grub. “Otherwise, I’ll have to explain _twice_!”

“Does that _matter_?” The Hollow Knight was closer. She hadn’t heard them move. “Does that _really_ matter right now, Ma’am? Why did you keep such a thing from us? How could you _lie_ like that? In the Archives- When we spoke- You pretended you’d never seen anything like this before! _Why didn’t you say anything?”_

“It’s- I- I didn’t-” She released a long breath. Such an action was supposed to be calming, but it felt more like she was drowning. “… I just- _I didn’t know what to do.”_

She turned her eyes to the Archivist. She couldn’t bear the gazes of her knights and she was _going_ to head off questions, no matter what her Defender said.

“Do you know of the evacuation of Deepnest?” She asked.

The bug shook his head. “Only vaguely.”

“Deepnest was hit harder than anywhere else,” She began, starting with the parts she could explain easily, half stalling, half necessary context. 

The Evacuation of Deepnest. That was simple enough; They were _saving_ people. Deepnest had been affected disproportionately, great swaths buried beneath void without any warning. They had been providing aid, rescue, and shelter; The Nest was cavernous, full of air pockets where bugs were able to congregate away from the rising tide, what kind of monster would she be if she didn't rescue those trapped within?

The bugs of Hallownest hadn’t been too pleased with her attempts to resettle the bugs of the Nest higher up, even a mere handful. However, she was Queen. They could not stop her.

The rest of the explanation… That was going to be harder. Where could she even start?

_She hadn’t even been there when it had all started to go wrong. _

“… We had a camp set up.” She said, eventually. “Where we were coordinating. Bringing in survivors, sending out rescue and supplies, it was our forwards base, located _just_ above the highest reaching pool of void.”

The Archivist looked drawn and feverish, the snatches of skin between the joints of his shell an unnatural pale grey. It took a moment for Hornet to realize there was _water_ condensing over his shell, like a cold drink left in a warm room, the droplets rolling and scattering as he shivered to the point that even _looking_ at him made her feel queasy.

Finally, Hornet tore her gaze away, looking her Defender in the eye as she reached the point she was dreading. “It happened shortly after the void began to go mad, trashing wherever it could reach. The camp… It was out of the way enough to be spared so long as everyone was careful, but I wasn’t there, I was still being forced to take a ‘_break’_ at the time, and I… I wasn’t _worried_ enough; I didn’t even… I didn’t check on operations, I assumed it would run fine without me for a little while.”

“You had just been summoned to check on the City, you were busy, and… The reports reached me late- I couldn’t do _anything_, I had no idea until it was all over.” A croak had wormed its way into her voice, which she quickly stifled. “You… You had only been gone a few hours. I just- I just didn’t want you to know I’d lost control of the situation so _soon_.”

“What reports? What situation? _What_ _happened_?”

“All contact from below just… Ceased.” She swallowed, the tightening inside only growing stronger. She felt… Not fear, but… _Dread_?

Hornet _never_ felt dread. “And when I got there, the camp was _empty_.”

“… Empty.” Ogrim echoed. “What do you mean by _empty_?”

By the tone of his voice, he already knew. “Every single bug had disappeared.” She whispered. “There was hardly any sign of a struggle. It’s as if… They all got up and _left_.”

“But-” Ogrim spluttered, “There were hundreds of bugs there! Guards and sentries and- And that’s not even getting into the rescued bugs… Some of them were too sick to_ move- Let alone_\- I was only just _there_\- How could this have _happened_?”

“_I don’t know_.” Hornet swallowed. “It wasn’t just our people. The _plants_… The _animals_… The area had been stripped to bare earth, sucked dry of life, and… At the same time, across Hallownest, we started to get _reports._ Disappearances, mostly. Bugs going missing or just… Mindlessly walking away into the wilderness.” She let that hang for a moment. “And then we started to hear of _kidanppings_, and from those that escaped them.”

“There are… Well, I wouldn’t call them _bugs_, anymore. Husks, maybe. But not as we know them.” The Hollow Knight was even closer. She couldn’t tell if they were furious or listening. “Fast, vicious, more void than flesh.” _Horrible creatures_. “They resemble what became of the Archivist, after we killed him, I believe.”

“Sorry, what? What do you mean by ‘_became’_?” The aforementioned bug asked.

Hornet ignored him.

“No, really, _what do you mean_?”

She shot him a glare. “It doesn’t matter.” He started to talk again, and she cut across forcefully, “Don’t _panic_, most of it went away when I killed you.”

“_’Most of it?’_” He spluttered, “Most of _what_? That doesn’t make me feel better!”

She shot him a glare; She didn’t want to get into that _disaster_ of a mission. “That doesn’t matter! You’re _fine_.” He was not, by any means, fine.

In fact, that unhealthy grey tinge had started to migrate from his joints to mottle his shell, lacing the otherwise dull blue with shiny, black circles and streaks, a particularly large and dark one creeping over his shoulder from his back, where she was fairly sure his very _joints_ had begun to ooze.

Disgusting.

She resolved to ignore him. The sooner she could dump him somewhere, _preferably jail_, the better; She didn’t need a symbol of her failure hanging around, spreading disease…

_… Wait a second_, this whole thing had been to interrogate him, not _her_!

Hornet glowered. Events had been twisted so she was the one bearing her soul rather than the _actual criminal_.

“_Ma’am_.” Ogrim said firmly, calling her attention back to the present. “Elaborate. Tell us as much as you can.”

“You saw the extent of it today. The void… Took over their bodies, mutating them; Too many arms, too many eyes, shells twisted and melting, and they shed great quantities of it as they went.” She sighed. She hadn’t actually _seen_ one until the Archives; She had merely been going on reports from bugs that had escaped the things.

She didn’t know if it was encouraging or terrifying to find out they were all very much _correct_.

“They would rave this strange nonsense. Going on and on about something below Hallownest. Somewhere they needed to go _desperately_.”

All of Hallownest needed her; Not just the surface caverns stuffed with new citizens, but Deepnest and even the Hive were, in some way, her responsibility, and she had already failed all three.

“I went back down there; I’ve been doing what I can but… I…” Her voice cracked, “… I don’t know what to _do_. I’ve had the entrances cordoned off, quarantine enforced, and I thought perhaps we could seal it all at home-” She corrected herself quickly with a grunt, “-_In Deepnest_ until we came up with something better, but apparently not!”

She jabbed her needle in the direction of her ire, savouring the sickly squeak of a bug expecting to be struck. “Because _he_ has already trodden through _half of Hallownest_ and exposed _who knows how many_ _more_ bugs to a disease we know _nothing_ about!” A _real_ leader would have figured something out by now. Her father could gaze ahead until the problem was solved, and steal a solution directly from the future, but she had no such power.

“Ma’am!” Ogrim physically _snatched_ her needle from her hands, “Exposed them _how_? How does it spread?”

“_I don’t know_! That’s the problem!” Hornet found herself pacing as she spoke, she was _wired_, full of nervous energy with no outlet. “I don’t know! It could be anything! All we know is it’s the _void_! Somehow!” She didn’t know how. The stuff was acid that dwelled at the bottom of the world! Bugs shouldn't have been able to _access_ it, let alone get contaminated without terrible injuries, and _yet_-

Her fingers had found their way into her eyeholes, pulling at her shell, at the crack where she had been struck as the Archivist violently reanimated; Anywhere she could get a grip. “All these bugs- All of a sudden- No warning! _They just went mad_!”

“Ma’am, you should have _said_ something!” Ogrim’s fury and concern bled into each other, his face creasing and warping as they played across his features, “Why would I ever think less of you for something so out of your _control_? Do you have any idea how much trouble could have been avoided if we’d known from the _start_? I would have taken Quirrel in the first time I saw him! I could have helped! We could have… We…” He faltered, “Oh, I don’t _know_. This is a disaster!”

Silence fell like an uneasy blanket.

She had told them. There was nothing left to say. And yet, that uneasy twisting deep in Hornet’s chest did not _leave_.

She was _guilty_, yes. And she felt it, but the fear inside of her was different, insidious and crawling and so unlike her. Something else was causing it.

The Archivist coughed wetly, seemingly unable to stand the silence. “With all due respect, Your Majesty;” He started, which Hornet knew meant _‘no respect at all’_, “With all that to deal with elsewhere, why are you _here_?”

She grimaced; His coughing had bought up yet _more_ void.

How much did he have in him? Where was it coming from? _Why wasn’t it eating through his flesh?_

More importantly, when was it going to _stop_?

Still, he made a point.

The guard he’d attacked had gone wild with sickness, only held back from causing a full outbreak by her injuries. She wanted to get to the _source_; A perfectly normal looking bug wasn’t consistent with what she’d heard.

That wasn’t the real reason, though. The fact of the matter was she didn’t want to clue in her knights by _refusing_. “You are not part of this conversation, _Archivist_.”

“It’s a valid question?”

It was, and one she had no patience for. “And you are a hideous mockery of conventional mortality. _Shut up_.”

The Defender sighed heavily. Whether it was due to her foolishness or the cheap jab at the Archivist was… Unclear. “Ma’am, _don’t_. Please. You needn’t deal with this alone; We can figure something out.” Uncertainty bled through his words. “I remember what we did last time, we- Well, _I’m_ certainly no expert on disease control- But we had a lot of bugs working, we kept it contained for a very long time, we can do that again!”

“Ogrim, _none_ of that worked before.”

“This time it will.” He left no room to argue. “What else can you tell us?”

“There isn’t much else.” Hornet said, "Deepnest… We lost all contact from down there as well, but from what I understand, bugs are travelling or being _taken_ down there by the infected. Sometimes willingly, if they’ve already turned mad, but often… Not.”

"Wyrm." Ogrim muttered, "We need to get down after them!"

"And do what? Stumble blindly? We know nothing else! They could be dead, for all we know! There’s nothing else to go on! This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before!” She gestured widely, “Everything I know, I’ve just told you!”

The Hollow Knight shifted subtlety, then they settled the annoying Archivist back on the floor and leant forwards with an enormous rustling of cloth. Their whole body almost _creaking_ as they set their entire weight upon their arm, bringing them closer until their mask was almost touching Hornet’s.

They were not _happy_ with her. Some part of her could tell, some strange sense, a hunch that always gave her a glimpse into their thoughts and feelings.

The realization weaved into her mind: _They could have helped her;_ The Hollow Knight was off duty at the time. Unlike Ogrim they were not attending to any official business, it would have been so easy to summon them down, to loop them in, but she _hadn’t_.

Hornet’s eyes slipped past them for a moment, their face unwavering. The Hollow Knight did not need to move unless they _wanted_ to; Staying frozen in position whenever they weren’t active. It felt like being stared down by a statue.

Behind them, the Defender stood at their heels; His presence silent and judging in the way of someone who had lived far longer and knew far more than they ever let on. “I’m sorry. I should have told you, I just… Don’t know how this is _happening_, and I don’t know how to _stop_ it. I was going to tell you when I knew what to do.”

It felt impossible to do anything practical to prevent it. They didn’t know how it spread, or what controlled it, or _anything_. Hornet wasn’t present for the beginning of the old infection, it had merely been a fact of life for her; An impossible enemy to _deal_ with, not resolve. Maybe that was why she felt so helpless.

She had nothing to go on but the words of others, and they told her of _husks_ and _monsters_.

The Hollow Knight let out an empty huff of air, puffing from their eyeholes, before withdrawing and settling back onto their haunches.

They regarded her for a moment, then shook their head and turned away, taking the Archivist’s arm and helping him sit up.

Hornet watched them, for a time, the room having finally settled.

For what reason they’d decided to personally step in and look after the Teacher’s old assistant was a mystery to her.

They had become… _Peculiarly_ attached after the disastrous trip to the Archives, practically losing their mind at the sight of the _nastiest_ creature she’d ever dealt with; An oily, roiling mass of horns and tendrils with many glistening, pale eyes that tried and failed to take shape from the Archivist’s reanimated husk before collapsing spectacularly back upon itself.

It was a half-familiar beast, she thought _perhaps_ she had seen something similar before, but the details eluded her.

It painted a gristly picture for the infected bugs. Yet, more importantly, she had _never seen them react like that before._

_They had tossed their nail and attempted to fling themselves at it._ Reaching, clawing, scrabbling _wildly_ against the metal floor to bring themselves closer to it, going so far as to make some terrible _noise_, a hollow wail that still rattled through her head even as she dwelled upon it.

And when the creature lost its form and left them with nothing but a regenerating, void-eaten corpse, they picked it up like the most valuable object.

Since then, they absolutely refused to leave him _alone_.

She was worried for them. They knew something she _didn’t_, but as for what? She had no clue.

\---

It dragged itself higher, lifting from the shore as if it where light as air. The doppelganger unfurling as it rose, unbothered by gravity, uncoiling, uncurling, thousands of tendrils spilling from its fat body like pouring oil, billowing out around it like a cloud; Spilling black ooze and smoke and choking the very _air_ with darkness.

_“Was it not enough,”_ It hissed, _“To complete your purpose?”_ Its movements were laced some awful malevolence as it wafted forwards, tendrils curling towards them like thick ropes as it advanced. _“Was it not enough to fade back into the darkness from whence you came, like the rest of your kind? To die, like the other pawns in the King’s game, now spent and useless? What purpose do you serve now, Vessel?”_ Its head twisted impossibly on its neck as it spat, _“What do you **want?”**_

They didn’t know! They couldn’t answer! Ghost found themselves locked in some paralysis as it bore down upon their trembling form, terribly helpless in a way they hadn’t been for so long.

They just wanted to go _home_. That wasn’t bad! _It wasn’t! They just wanted to see their friends again!_

_“Are you aware of what you have bought upon us?”_ The voice wasn’t theirs. Their own stolen words, the only ones they had, belonged to someone else, yet they recognised it, _they_ _did_; Light and airy and sophisticated, but no face came to claim it, no suspicions entered their mind, all ideas falling through like dust. **_“Do you care?”_**

The whole world started to blot out around them, to fade away, bringing in focus only to this horrible creature wearing their warped face, the blinding sky above funnelling into a spotlight; Bathing them in gold and green.

Ghost tipped back, the shock of the fall flooding movement back into their limbs as they finally scrambled to make some space between them and their assailant but their numb and strange body got in the way, tripping and tangling them in their own lengthy coils. They were still restricted, still tied, they had no use of their limbs, they could barely tell _how_ they were moving, _where_ they were moving to, yet their doppelganger had no such problem, keeping pace easily and lazily as it bore down upon them, wafting through the air with flickering tentacles, surrounding them and chasing them back all at once. 

There was no escape. _They couldn’t escape!_

_It was going to hurt them_. Their breaths heaved as it grew closer; They had seen these movements before, yet now their very _image_ was stalking them like a predator; And they were all but powerless to stop it, struggling to move any further, their body jammed in place once more as if held by an invisible force.

**_“An infection,” _**It growled, stopping mere inches from their eyes; So close, the soul-charged air around it prickled and pulled at their skin, its face falling into a blessedly unfocused blur._ **“YOUR**_** _infection.”_**

No... No! It was lying. It wanted to get under their shell. They wouldn’t- They _couldn’t_! Why would they create an _infection?_

_“You have bought something **terrible** upon Hallownest.”_ It continued, undaunted. _“An affliction, so novel and strange, so awful and unknowable, the very ruler of this realm struggles to even describe the events she has witnessed, hides her perceived failure for fear of an outcry.”_

They tried to shrink back as it moved even closer, but there was nowhere to go. _“Look upon your actions, Vessel. **Look at what you’ve done.”**_

Godhome started to _melt_ around them, splitting at the seams and falling apart as the water turned _black_; The world shifting like a living thing as the sky began to drip thick drops upon their head and the floor started to bow under their weight, sending them scrambling, panicking, as it all started to tip and flow towards the black waters; Now rustling and moving in a way so familiar and so, so _dreadful_.

A hand broke the surface, followed by a body that _twitched_ and _oozed_ and _groaned_. A bug, but not _anymore_.

More followed, shambling towards them from the void like an army of the dead; Melted and awful.

The creature’s tendrils lashed forwards, too fast, _too fast_, they were snared within seconds, wrapping around their already bound form, and then it started to _drag_ them towards itself; Drifting back though the air towards the shore, sailing over the heads of the horrible creatures pouring from the black sea and pulling them through the crowd, uncaring as the husks grabbed at them with eager hands.

It took a moment for them to realize they weren't alone.

Other bugs were being hauled to the waters by the husks, struggling and screaming; Being thrown in, forced to feed the void but to what end? _What end_?

Their doppelganger kept moving, marching untouched into the dark ocean and pulling them in behind it, the world plunging into rustling black as the waters took hold of them from all sides and dragged them under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate how much more I know about pandemic response than I did when I first drafted this  
Anyway yes hello oh no what's happening  
The cat's out of the bag, and Hornet isn't happy about it, it seems  
And Ghost's having one hell of a dream, huh? If it's even a dream at all...?  
I'm sorry to all the people guessing that they'd become the Radiance; That's one hell of a kickass take and I wish I'd come up with it, but the next few chapters are already outlined and I'd have to make so MANY changes for it to work :'(  
That being said,  
Thank you all so much, for enjoying this sorry excuse of a fic enough to threorise and guess what'll happen next; It means a lot to me!!  
See you all soonish, I hope :)


	14. When Will You Learn That Your Actions Have Consequences?

Hornet sat in miserable, awkward silence.

After her admission, no one really had anything left to say; Especially not to _ her _.

That was not the case herself, there were still words sitting in her mouth; More apologies for her knights, long-awaited questions for the Archivist, but they had all dried up, gummed against her jaws where nothing could dislodge them.

She was wasting time. The world had not paused for them, with every second, every moment she sat, it all got worse.

Where had her momentum gone? Everything had lulled, gone still. Her energy had been spent, leaving her with nothing but guilt knawing at her gut as the two bugs she trusted most all but ignored her, trying to process the information she had withheld.

What was she to do? Things had to get moving again. Something needed to _ happen _.

The Archivist, Hornet supposed she should use his name but her annoyance at the bug was still far too great to bother, was conversing quietly with the Hollow Knight.

Sometimes, it was hard to tell if her sibling was listening, or if they were merely allowing themselves to be spoken at, but the subtle set of their body, the small shifts of their head, told her they were paying close attention.

“It fits my timeframe, but… Not quite.” His voice was barely loud enough for her to hear, yet still echoed louder than anything else. “It doesn’t make sense. An infection… Surely, if _ we _ were spreading it about, I would have noticed? And Ogrim, when I ran into him, we’d already been stuck for _ hours _-”

Right. The Archivist. Their reason for travelling somewhere so _ remote _.

He needed to be dealt with.

Hornet cleared her throat. “Hollow Knight?” She ventured, watching as their head swivelled slowly to face her, “I need you to head outside and check in with the guards we left near the Stag Station. I don’t want any surprises when we leave.”

They did not move. Instead, they merely continued to stare her down.

Hornet sighed. She knew what their complaint was. “I just need a quick sweep of the perimeter. How long will it possibly take? I’m not going to hurt your friend.”

That was the truth.

Well, truth enough to make her feel as if she wasn’t lying to their face, at any rate; But it would be a _ true _ falsehood to say she didn’t have ulterior motives.

After all, getting her sibling out of the room would make it far easier to _ interrogate _ the Archivist, which was the reason why they had captured the bug in the first place.

… Well, along with the fact he appeared genuinely impossible to kill, but that was neither here nor there.

It was time for them to have a little _ chat _.

The Hollow Knight stared her down for a few seconds longer, then, with a great rolling of joints, they heaved themselves dramatically to their feet.

Giving Ogrim a nod as they moved, they swept roughly past Hornet, allowing their enormous cloak to billow and catch upon her horns, yanking her head to the side and forcing her to duck away with a muffled yelp as they slipped carefully through the thorny exit and into the garden beyond.

She sighed as their quiet footsteps receded into the bustling sounds of nature outside. They had their own ways of expressing displeasure, and Hornet needed no foresight to see more incidents like _ that _ in her future.

“Ow.” She muttered, rubbing away the headache threatening to erupt anew between her horns.

“Hm.” Ogrim murmured idly, shifting to watch her sibling go. “Do you think they’ll actually do it?”

“This is _ serious _.” Hornet said, feeling absolutely no faith in her own words. “Of course they’ll do it.”

Knowing her luck, if they did as she asked, they wouldn’t drag their feet. She needed to be quick.

Outside, hinged platforms creaked and clattered loudly as her sibling made their way out into the Garden, and Hornet waited patiently for the sound to die away before turning sharply towards the source of her ire and pointing her needle. “_ You _. Start talking.”

Tied up, sick, and prone, she would never hurt him.

But, of course, _ he didn’t need to know that. _

“Oh, no.” The Hollow Knight was already far out of earshot and he _ knew _ it. “Wait, wait! Just let me get my story straight-” He cut himself off in a heavy fit of wet coughs, far _ nastier _ than before, void splattering from his mask.

Hornet cringed. It was disgusting, but worse than that, he was getting _ worse _; There was no telling how long it would take for him to turn mad again.

“_ Wyrm _,” He muttered, voice hoarse. “There’s no way I can explain myself without sounding insane…”

“I have no doubt you’ll sound insane, but I don’t care, and we have no time; Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the sound of your own voice, Archivist. _ Speak _.”

“But-” He stuttered, “Just give me a few minutes-”

“We don’t _ have _ a few minutes! _ Talk _ ! Do you have a story or _ not _?”

“_ Fine, _ then!” He shrieked, voice cracking halfway through; Rough and upset and finally reaching a limit. “I won’t think before I speak! How about that? Do you remember the little Ghost? _ Pale little thing? Named by _ ** _you_ ** _ ? _ They’re alive! And they’re _ very _ keen to get back to the physical world! And they’ve been _ absolutely driving me up the wall for _ ** _96 hours now!”_ **

At those words, Hornet’s heart stopped. “_ What _?”

At the same time, Ogrim said “_ Wyrm _, Quirrel, please. Not this.”

“Shh.” She hissed, waving her hand at her knight in an attempt to shush him as politely as she could.

She had named them, that was true, and the Archivist _ shouldn’t have known that. _

It _ couldn’t _ be… _ Yet _…

“Ma’am, no.” He said, ignoring her; “I’ve heard this already, in the Archives, it’s what tipped me off, you can’t _ possibly _-”

“-Defender-”

“-No, ma’am, _ please _ , he’s clearly sick;” His voice rose from a polite hush to speaking volume. “Listen to me, these are not the answers you want.” The Defender would never say anything bad about someone to their face, let alone speak about a bug as if they weren’t in the room, yet his sudden shedding of manners was enough to make Hornet balk. “You weren’t there, he was walking around talking to himself for _ ages _ , it’s _ delirium _, this isn’t the time for any sort of serious interrogation-”

“Quiet! Ogrim, I _ know _!” Hornet hissed sharply, wincing as her knight jerked in offence at her raised voice.

“-_ Oh _.” He blinked, “… My apologies.” He said, sitting up straight, suddenly as polite and composed as the day they had met under the gaze of her father. “I’m… Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

Hornet winced, she’d gone too harsh, too quickly. “No, don’t apologize, it’s just…” She was _ rattled _. Too rattled to be polite. “… Later. We’ll talk about this later.”

Leaving the sentence to hang in the air, she turned back to the Archivist. “_ What _?”

“_ You heard me _.” He hissed, taking a deep, trembling breath. It was hard to tell if he was trying to steady himself, or just unable to control his breathing, voice wobbling as unsteadily as the rest of him.

“I don’t think they caused this infection, But… Obviously, it’s no _ coincidence _ . I don’t know what they were doing before they decided to bother _ me _ , but they’ve been single-minded about regaining a body; Nothing else.” He paused, taking in a breath as if he was going to continue or contradict himself, but relented. “And ma’am? I think I would have noticed if they were having me spread sickness, _ thank you very much _.”

With a sigh, he continued, “Why I’m _ defending _ them after they caused me all this grief, I don’t know.” With a grunt, he shifted shakily to a more comfortable position; Hornet noting with a sharp spike of guilt that she had tied his bindings unnecessarily tight in her anger over the whole situation. “I can’t give you the answers you seek, and I apologize for that, but all of this… This _ threatening _ is ridiculous!”

“I- You-” Hornet found herself sputtering, falling madly over her own words, “Are you- You’re _ suggesting _-” She couldn’t find her voice. Her sibling was dead; Their remains had washed up months before upon the first tide of void, nothing but a greasy knot of cloth and shards of shell to mark their passing.

Yet, the Archivist spoke with such confidence it gave her pause. There was no clarity to the madness spouted by the infected, no narrative. But if her Defender was to be believed, this was a story he was _ sticking _ to.

And her sibling, the little Ghost; Saviour of Hallownest and bearer of a name she had bestowed herself… She never knew what happened to them.

She didn’t know why they didn’t inexplicitly resurrect and reappear as they always did before; Turning up asleep on a bench with no evidence of injury beyond the shadowy smear of a ghost waiting where they fell.

She didn’t know where they had died, nor how.

She had searched for days, visiting their old haunts; Well-trodden roads and places of rest, people and areas they would frequent, asking, looking everywhere for a clue, for that _ shadow _ , for _ anything _.

But for all her effort, nothing had shown up.

No word, no shadow.

Unless… _ No. _

_ Unless they had never died in the first place. _

The idea made her skin crawl cold under her shell, but worse of all, it made a terrible sort of _ sense _.

Finally, she managed to choke out a semblance of a statement. “_ -They’re alive?” _

“Oh _ yes _ , yes, they are. In fact, they’ve managed to loge themselves _ firmly _ within my frontal cortex, which is just… _ Great _ .” There was a sharp measure of acid to his voice, “And they’ve used that wonderful leverage over _ my own physical body _ to turn me into a _ criminal! _And after all I did for them!”

“I- I don’t- _ No _ .” It had to be insanity, no matter how much sense it made. Her sibling, _ Ghost _, if they truly were alive, why didn’t they find a way to contact her? Why didn’t they make themselves known?

Why would they possess an annoying old bug?

_ Why would they unleash an infection? _

Hornet recalled the sheer panic within the Archivist as she faced him in the Archives; How he acted as if it wasn’t coming from _ him _ ; Merely the unwilling host of something so _ scared _.

She remembered, the few times they had met peacefully before the end, how her sibling would always approach her so _ haltingly _, as if she were some kind of unpredictable animal, weapon always drawn.

They were… Were they fearful of her? Was that why?

No. _ No _, they couldn’t be. She was mistaken.

“No. No, no _ no no no no _ . I refuse to believe this. It _ can’t _ \- They _ wouldn’t _ \- _ Why? Why would they do this to us _?”

“Your Majesty,” Ogrim started, so overly formal it made her gut twist further in guilt, “You don’t really believe this, do you?”

“I…” She didn’t want to believe it. She really, _ really _ didn’t. But the truth, the truth was…

“It _ could _ be.” Hornet croaked, sucking in a breath she hardly realized she was holding. “It really could be them. They could be alive.” She swallowed, “They weren’t a _ bug _, Ogrim. Higher Beings, they aren’t like you or me, such a creature would need no body to persist.”

“I looked for their shade, or some indication they still lived but… If this is true, Ogrim, if it’s them, if… If they’re _ infecting _ people… W _ hat can we do _?”

He didn’t believe her. It was written over him, from the set of his mandibles to the very way he sat.

The whole concept was so far-fetched Hornet barely believed it _ herself _, but once it had entered her mind, she found it impossible to dislodge.

Still, the great bug relented, sighing and looking away. “… I don’t know, Ma’am.” He said eventually, “I _ really _ don’t know.”

“Wait, we’re _ not _ \- I _ never _ said they’re infect- _ Oh, whatever _ .” The Archivist rubbed at his face with his wrist, smearing void against his mask. “Forget it. I’m… I’m just going to lie down. I’m _ done _ . I’ve said my bit.” With that, he flopped forwards into his front with a thud; Bound wrists forcing his arms against his belly in a fashion that looked to be _ distinctly _ uncomfortable.

Hornet sighed. She still didn’t know what to do with him; If he really did harbour her sibling, then her hopes of making him someone else’s problem were long gone. “Don’t be immature.”

Muffled by the stone, his frustration-laced retort was hard to understand. “I’ve had no agency over _ anything _ for three days, my everything hurts, and I’m beginning to hallucinate. _ I am going. To lie here _ . If you want me to get up, _ untie me _.”

Oh, of all the stupid things to take a stand on- “No. Stay there, I don’t care. You have to get up eventually.”

“On the contrary, _ I do not.” _

“Wait, you’re hallucinating?” Ogrim asked.

“_ I think so _ . I mean, I imagine if the walls and ceiling were _ really _ trying to grab me, someone would have reacted by now.”

“… I suppose that’s true. Are you okay? I… Apologize for being rude, earlier, but I’m sure you understand…”

“I’m so stressed I think I’ve looped back to serenity.” The Archivist sighed into the stone. “And it’s fine, Ogrim, I do understand. You and the Hollow Knight have been kind, and-” Whatever he had to say was drowned under a fresh tide of coughs.

Hornet gasped. “_ Oh _, stars above. The Hollow Knight will be distraught.”

“The Hollow Knight already knows, _ I think.” _ The Archivist’s voice had, against all odds, turned rougher. “All things considered, it’s a miracle you got them out of the room-” His voice dropped as he added; “-One I _ wish _ you hadn’t achieved.”

“_Excuse me_? How can _they_ _already… Know…?”_

…

… The void creature.

The horrible, many-eyed thing they tried to fling themselves into as it rose from the Archivist’s corpse.

They _ recognised _ it, of course they did.

And now, with her memory jogged, so did she.

A face so similar had been swimming in and out of her dreams for months. A beast, smoky and serpentine, challenging her to battle.

It would win. It would _ always _ win. So large it filled her vision, blotting out the jeering crowd and so impossibly liquid she could not hit it, and so careful, it never hurt her. It blurred with memories of different battles, similar battles; Both real and imagined, with someone smaller, someone paler, someone she thought to be dead.

Someone who always left a smaller, yet unmistakably similar shadow behind as they passed.

It couldn’t be…

But it had to be…

“… _ Ogrim _ .” She looked to him half for support, half to conform her terrible theory. “The thing that came from the Archivist’s husk. The void creature… I think… If this is true then, _ Wyrm _ , I think that was _ them _ . That was why the Hollow Knight reacted that way, they _ recognised _ them, and… I think… _ I do too _ ; I’ve seen that thing before, or- Or something similar. I’ve dreamed of it. Ogrim, it makes _ sense _.”

“The _ what _ that came from my _ what _ ?” The Archivist spluttered, “ _ You can’t just say these things _!”

She ignored him, watching keenly as her Defender practically _ chewed _ on her idea. His face, maskless and easily readable, twisting rapidly through conflicting emotions. She struggled to read them, unused to the need, but he seemed… Considering.

“Ma’am…” He said, after a few seconds pause. “… What do you mean you’ve _ dreamed _ of it?”

“I’m not infected.”

“I’m not asking that.”

Ah.

“It’s… Hard to explain.” Hornet thought for a moment, back to sleepless nights both during and after the infection. “I suppose… I’ve been dreaming, lately, of battles. Of facing down a great mass of eyes and shadows. I used to dream similarly about my sibling.”

“… _ Oh _.” Ogrim swallowed, voice coming in a gasp. “Ma’am… So have I. I dreamed of fighting the little one many times, yet, recently… Instead, I’ve dreamed of fighting a great monster, a black Wyrm with many eyes.”

“… They had the ability to access dreams.” She added, speaking as soon as the terrible realization hit her. “They needed it to kill the dreamers. They would have needed it to destroy the infection.”

Ogrim’s face had finally settled on an expression.

He looked _ horrified _.

“Oh, this… This is… _ Bad _.” If he hadn’t believed her before, he did now. “What do we do? Wyrm, Quirrel, I’m so sorry.”

“_ It’s fine _.”

“We need to get Ghost back. Either they’re the cause of this disaster, or they’re involved.” Hornet said, “Archivist, you’ve been talking as if you’re alone. What happened to them? Where are they now?”

“They’re unconscious, I think. They’re definitely not gone, but… Oh, I don’t know, asleep?” The Archivist sighed, “Perhaps they need soul, or something, I don’t know. _ I _ certainly don’t have any, I’m sick as a grub; Which is strange, because I wasn’t before! In fact, I felt _ fine _ before you kil-”

He choked on the words, “Before you _ stabbed _ me. But now I’m not. Now I’m infected. And I don’t know if it’s because of _ that _ , or if I had been all along and they were just… Holding it back, or- Or keeping it at bay; Which is all just… A _ fantastic _ development to my day. Now _ untie me _.”

“_ Wyrm _,” Hornet sighed, “Fine.”

“… Really?” He stared up at her from his place on the floor, “I- I… Didn’t actually expect you to say yes.”

“Then why,” She asked slowly, “Did you _ ask _?”

“… Well, it was more about the principle of the whole thing.” He was still oozing, and it would be a lie to say Hornet didn’t have… Reservations.

She wondered if he’d noticed his shell turning grey, or if she should point it out.

A particularly nasty fit of coughs pulled her out of her thoughts. “Just… Sit up.”

“… I don’t think I can. M- My balance is a little shot.”

Right. Fine. She didn’t need him to do that anyway.

Hornet merely reached for the silk bindings, feeling her own soul within the thread, and with a thought, she pulled it back into herself; The silk dissolving into nothingness, only 'real' while she allowed it to be. 

Placated, the Archivist sighed, rubbing at his wrists and stretching awkwardly with a nasty popping of plates, the armour over his back giving a particularly nasty crack that made Hornet wince, giving her the feeling she should check the floor for broken shell.

“T- Thank you,” He murmured. “I hope you don’t mind but- I’m going to just lie here for- For a minute. My _ head _…” He curled in a little, voice pitching higher in pain.

He was twitching. “… Are you okay?” Hornet asked, unable to hide a note of concern.

“I’m fine. Just my h- Head. It’s- _ Hurting _ -” He cut off into a shuddering wheeze. “- Just- Give me a s- A second- _ Ow _-”

“My goodness.” Ogrim knelt next to the old bug, hands hovering worriedly. “This is not ‘fine’! Wyrm, there’s- There’s ice on your shell.”

“Y- Yes, well, the v- void isn’t exactly _ warm _-”

Whatever the Archivist was going to say, he didn’t get to finish his sentence.

\---

They were _ drowning _.

_ They were drowning! _ Their throat burnt as they struggled to draw breath but there was nothing, _ nothing _ but unbreathable void; It surrounded them, it crushed them and dragged at them, and it was trying to tear them _ apart _.

Gone was the kind, dark sea, the placid expanse that _ begged _ for their control, their guidance, and in its place was something wild and furious, a beastly force of nature that took hold of them from every angle and _ pulled _ , tugging them dizzyingly down into the depths, inescapable and _ crushing _ , tugging and pulling, buffeting them like a strong current and then, all of a sudden, they were _ falling _.

The fall was somehow the worst part of all.

They had fallen before, but it was nothing more than another kind of movement; There was never anything to worry about unless there were _ spikes _ at the bottom. But this time, it did something strange to them, their insides flipping horribly as they tumbled wildly out of control, spinning through the air faster and faster, nausea building as their speed only _ increased _ ; And then, without warning or explanation, their whole body _ jerked _, a terrible pain blooming within their brain and rocketing through every part of them.

Ghost gasped, limbs flailing as, for a second, they scrabbled desperately against the ground to catch themselves. Panic pounded through them with every beat of their heart, racing to their head and burning behind their eyes as if they were under attack, but, within seconds, it was fading; Disappearing as quickly as it came, replaced by a drowsiness that clawed at their mind, dragging at their consciousness, trying to lure them to sleep.

No! They couldn’t! They were still in danger, they still had to get away, to escape, to- _ They had to- To run- _ Or _ \- _ Or _ … _

But there was nothing to escape from. There was a clarity to their mind they had been missing before, as they crawled through the dark and the fear, as senseless, terrible things happened while they were powerless to do nothing but watch.

They were not _ drowning _ . They were not _ falling _ . _ Nothing _ was trying to drag them into the dark. 

_ Because, _ they realised, _ none of it had been real. _

They had been having a _ nightmare _.

With their mind suddenly so clear, the realization was so… _ Glaringly _ obvious. They felt almost foolish.

… They also, finally, understood Grimm’s whole _ ‘deal’. _

No wonder no one liked him.

That train of thought petered out as fast as it had come. _ They _ liked Grimm.

They were okay. They were alive.

They let their breaths fall even.

Their… Their _ breaths _.

They were alive, yes. _ But they were still not themselves. _

Their hands were half coving their face as they lay curled upon their side, and they cracked an eye open to peer down at themselves, half scared of what they would see.

_ Quirrel _.

They were still Quirrel! And- And they- He was still there! They could feel him there, awake and conscious, as if nothing had ever happened! _ He was alive as well! _

They hurt, or maybe _ he _ did, but that was just further confirmation that it was alright, that they had made it out okay; The horrible pain within their head ebbing away slowly into something small and ignorable, aches in their limbs and a great knot in their back just acting as more _ proof _; Barely registering to their excited mind as actual pain.

But _ how _ ? It felt impossible. No, it _ was _ impossible. He had died.

They were _ overjoyed _ , yes, but after that terrible _ nightmare _… How could they be sure it was real? They focused. Now they were aware, now they were paying attention, they could feel every twitch, every little movement, every indication that they weren't alone.

Quirrel swallowed, nervously set and reset his mandibles, and took a breath to speak.

"Ghost-" He started; Voice set at a sharp whisper.

Yes! _ Yes! _ ** _Yes!_ ** That was all they needed. They didn't care to keep checking. It was them it was him it was all okay!

"_ Alive _ ?" They squeaked back, breaths hitching but they did their best to keep it together. " _ Yes? Okay _?"

"_ Yes _, I'm alive." He said, “Listen-”

There was... Something _ odd _ in his voice.

It was flat, and at the edge of their mind, where they petered out amongst the spells and the bindings, a sour note dug in. A negative emotion, worming its way into their heart from elsewhere.

There was something wrong. They still _ felt _ wrong, but beyond that…

He wasn't happy.

_ Why wasn't he happy? _

\---

Lemm found himself stumbling as he made his way down a winding stone path, loose rocks scattering under uneven feet as he passed.

He was… Going to the market? Yes. The market.

He should have long arrived in Dirtmouth, but as was the habit of things in Hallownest, it seemed that from the moment he had left his home, everything had turned on it's head a little.

The problem was, Lemm didn’t have running water in his house.

Every day, he faced a walk down to a water pump further into the Crossroads, placed just far away enough to be an annoyance, where he ran the serious risk of meeting other bugs and being forced into _ small talk _.

He supposed it was a small price to pay for not drying up with thirst, but that didn't mean he had to _ like _ it. 

However, lately, the water had started coming out a funny colour. 

_ Grey _. 

Lemm did not consider himself an expert in the matter, but weird coloured water could never be a good thing; Yet, he had no real choice in the matter. He’d never bothered to search for any other sources, nor had he seen to getting any plumbing.

In fact, he only ever remembered to go get the damned stuff when he was _ already _ thirsty. 

Still, though. _ Grey water _.

He'd been sure to boil it thoroughly, as prevailing wisdom would have him do, and that dulled the colour enough for him to consider it safe enough to drink. 

One mug of tea wouldn't _ hurt _ , after all, and it would help him gauge if he should finally find somewhere _ else _ to get a drink.

Luckily for Lemm, it tasted fine. The flavours of the tea, something green and aromatic, capable of overwhelming any lingering tastes.

However, while he was drinking…

He had the _ strangest _ idea.

Why… Why was he bothering to _ wait _ for bugs to seek him out with relics to sell? 

Hallownest was lousy with relics! There was nothing to say he couldn't go out and get them _ himself _. 

It was a strangely appealing notion. He could see it, in his mind's eye; _ Down _ , deep, deep _ down _ ; Shining piles of relics and treasures, a great, veritable _ sea _ of them, just waiting to claimed, _ begging _ to be researched and catalogued!

The idea filled him with more energy than he’d felt in weeks.

It wouldn't hurt to pop out and see what he could scrounge up. It was about time for his daily shop, anyway. The groceries and newspaper would not buy themselves.

Lemm decided to take a slightly extended route to Dirtmouth. It certainly wouldn't hurt to stretch his legs and swing _ down _ through the bowels of the Crossroads to see if he could turn anything up on the way. 

And yet… _ Yet _…

Yet, almost instantly, Lemm found himself a little... _ Turned around. _

He had been walking for so long, but he didn’t seem to be getting _ anywhere _.

Of course, he wouldn’t call himself ‘lost’ by any meaning of the word; He’d simply stepped off the path at some point along the way, and things would be fine once he found his way back.

It was dark, wherever he was. It clouded his vision in dark streaks, running and mixing and striping the environment like drops of rain against the windows of the City of Tears.

It made it hard to see, and even harder to pick out landmarks. _ Had he passed that rock already? _ Maybe.

_ Which way…? _

Once again, that trove of relics, hidden just beneath his feet, swam to the forefront of his mind, so loud and insistent he had to pay it heed.

_ Down _ . Keep moving ** _down_ **.

Right, right. Of course. He needed to make it to the bottom of Hallownest if he wanted to unearth anything decent.

There were… _ Relics… _ Yes… _ A great sea of them _… 

He just needed to make it. He needed to be **down** there. Everything he wanted was waiting just underneath his feet!

He just needed to keep moving.

The walls rustled, lain thick with what looked to be great, dark roots; Writhing in the corner of his vision yet seemingly melting into the walls whenever he turned to look.

They _ were _ there though, for every now and again he would slip too close as he edged past one, earning a few sharp, oozingly _ wet _ burns against his elbows that quickly petered out into a terrible numbness, only serving to spur him on faster, to escape the tight corridors to more spacious ground.

Every now and again, Lemm would catch glimpses of what he swore could be _ other _ bugs; But they disappeared into the darkness long before he could get close enough to make them out.

_ Good _ , he thought, as yet another shadow flitted out of his vision to where it couldn’t bother him. _ The relics are as good as mine. _

There were no other Relic Seekers within Hallownest, yet suddenly, he felt as if he were surrounded by _ rivals _.

Lemm was not a bug that enjoyed sharing. _ If he needed to keep other bugs off his relics, he would… He would… _

_ … He would do what, exactly? _ Some exceptionally lucid part of him asked, fighting through the clouds to make a point; _ Fight them? _

The darkness had grown deeper, the floor slick and slippery; Burning against his feet with each step, strange liquid flowing up over the walls and pushing against the ceiling like a great inverted waterfall.

He was close. So, so _ close _.

Just a little longer.

\---

The return of Ghost felt like a hit from a raging stag.

They were never really _ gone _, no, but even after a mere few days of being pressed so close, even a small dulling of their presence felt like some great withdrawal; Low tide after weeks of high water.

The fact that he felt sick as a grub ruined the small measure of relief this bought, just a little.

The headache, which burnt so painfully bad already, surged behind Quirrel’s eyes into something blinding and awful; The discomfort at the back of his mind blooming into something horrid.

It pulsed and _ grew _ . It felt like he was being eaten up, chewed from the inside, the bites coming in accordance with his heartbeat, almost lining up with his very breaths, filling all available room until it was impossible to think or feel anything other than the pounding _ ache _.

And it was surely no _ dull _ ache; Nor was it the sharp pain of before, bought on by the use of whatever strange senses Ghost bought to bear. No, it was something new, all-encompassing, a hurt that gripped his brain and _ squeezed _.

He was already on the ground, yet it still floored him; Hands rushing to grab at his own mask, to take hold of the pain and send it _ away _, somewhere, anywhere, but it was a fruitless endeavour.

It seared through his body, snapping through every joint, and even through his hands were in front of his face, there came a terrible feeling, as if, simultaneously, he was being stabbed in the back and his arm twisted painfully by the elbow to the same spot.

All of a sudden, Quirrel’s stomach _ flipped _ , senses clashing with reality as, out of the blue, he was _ falling _.

He was falling.

_ He was falling! _

_ Why was he _-

There was a jerk, a spasm of muscles and a pounding _ jolt _ of adrenaline as if he’d just dropped from a dream, spots blooming in front of his eyes as the headache kicked out one final time before finally falling back into something tolerable.

And just like that, Ghost was _ back _ ; Restless, shifting, and so very _ conscious _, as if they had never left.

They were back, but… It was strange. They were thinking but… He could _ feel _ their thinking; Almost like a push against his own mind, foreign thoughts rubbing against the familiar; Not crossing, _ thankfully _ not crossing, but too close.

Even stranger, _ he didn’t feel sick anymore _.

The headache and the pain stayed, but the nausea? The burning void threatening to spill from his throat and the trembling, unsteady dizziness… _ It was all gone _, sunk away in a fashion that made him almost feel as if he were making it up.

He was just… Cold and miserable. And he probably looked it, too.

Was Ghost all that stood between him and this infection?

Oh… He didn’t like that thought at _ all _.

Hornet and Ogrim’s gazes burnt into his back. There had been, what? Mere _ seconds _ of warning? There was barely time to talk before it became too bad to think; Let alone give anything coherent.

And now they were waiting.

There was no point pretending they were alone. Ogrim’s particular scent may have faded into the background, almost at home as it mingled with the warm and mulchy breeze drifting from the world outside, but it was still beyond noticeable.

Quirrel swallowed.

The pounding pain had eased, yes, but the tangible _ press _ of Ghost’s thoughts did not abate. It was an alien push, he wasn’t even sure he was identifying it correctly; For all he knew it could be the moderate-to-severe brain damage the whole situation was _ absolutely _ giving him finally catching up, or perhaps an aneurism coming to finish him off.

… _ Temporarily _.

Oh, _ wyrm _, that wouldn’t be a pleasant way to go.

And… What if it happened again, afterwards? And again, after that? He hadn’t had a chance to check himself over for injuries, he didn’t know how complete this revival effect was! What if it only dealt with the killing blow, leaving the underlying causes intact?

_ What if-! _

No, _ no _. He needed to stop thinking about these things. There were more important issues.

Quirrel shoved his worries to the back of his mind, shelving them somewhere in the mess where, if he was lucky, they wouldn’t resurface for a while.

This whole adventure… It had stopped being _ fun _ . He had just… Jumped at the chance to _ do _ something, _ anything _, just for a little while; The fact he had no real choice barely registering in the face of the sheer boredom he’d been putting up with.

The Madame’s passing had left his schedule _ very _ clear indeed.

He could have left. In fact, he _ should _ have left and continued the wandering life he’d created for himself, _ yet _… Well, he’d finally given up and started the process just as Ghost caught up with him.

None of that really mattered. What mattered was the fact his fascination had run out about the same time his _ patience _ had; With Hornet’s needle buried firmly within his forehead. “Ghost-”

They gasped, a noise that turned itself into a cough as it tangled with the whispered words already in his throat, exhale becoming inhale and killing the sentence where it stood.

They spluttered and hiccupped, _ “A-Ali-ve??” _ Voice jumping high like a child, _ “Yes? Ok-ay?” _

“Yes, I’m alive!” Quirrel snapped, giving up on trying to whisper, his mandibles gritting so hard in barely stifled annoyance that the chitin actually _ squeaked _.

He could feel their emotions bleeding through the gap between their minds, a sharp wash of something shockingly joyful and heartskipping that flattened swiftly into a skin-prickling _ dread _ . It was disquieting, but at least this was something that had happened _ before _; Yet it still came sharper, as if it were easier than ever.

… He was probably imagining it. _ Wyrm, _ he needed some sleep. “Listen,” He hissed, “We have company, so don’t-”

They gasped wordlessly, the headache kicking into high gear once more as the whole room shot into his mind, Hornet and Orgim illuminated bright and clear behind them.

Oh, _ right _, they could do that.

Why in Hallownest was he bothering to keep his hands in front of his eyes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pinky can write an extra long chapter... As a treat.
> 
> Hornet and Ogrim are finally up to speed, Quirrel's about ready to scream for 12 hours straight until he feels better, and the Hollow Knight is taking their sweet sweet time sweeping the perimeter, if they're even bothering at all  
Also, Lemm's having... Issues.  
He's probably fine! It's all fine! Nothing bad here :)
> 
> Also good lord I'd say this whole 'quarantine' business has made me more productive but that'd be a lie, it's actually all the home learning I'm supposed to do spurring me to... Well... Not.  
ALSO it feels kinda awkward to be writing a fic that involves a disease outbreak rn but I started it long before all this stuff happened, so actually real life is just copying me  
Stay healthy out there, yall


	15. A Moment To Relax

The _‘great sea’_ of relics turned out to be rather more literal than Lemm could ever have imagined.

An ocean. An _actual_, black, ocean.

It spread so far; His misty eyes couldn’t make out the end.

All caverns had to stop at some point, surely, yet the sea stretched forever into the darkness, into infinity, beautiful and glossy, a grey painting lit by the moon.

There was no source of light, no torches or flies, yet it _sparkled_ with the promise of treasure.

The waters moved in a way that defied gravity, great torrents running in and out of the roof of the low-roofed cavern like hot-spring waterfalls, beautiful in their power, plunging into the sea and then back out again, flowing up and away into places unknown.

The lapping, _twisting_ waves upon its surface sounded like whispers; Impossible to understand, yet, as they hissed on and on, they almost began to make _sense_; Images and ideas flowing into the ears of the listener, crawling inside their very brain.

It… It _promised_… It promised _treasure_.

Relics in the waters, known and unknown.

And they were _his!_ Only his, for a small, small price. 

A simple, easy price.

_It wanted him to dig his fingers into his joints, peel off his very shell, and **swim**. _

_Okay, then._

A nice dip sounded quite _appealing_, actually… Yes, just a paddle… Just a _quick_-

-_Wait_.

Lemm couldn’t swim. He’d never bothered to learn.

_No_. He shook himself, turning away from the alluring waters; Images swimming in front of his eyes wherever he turned, piles of relics and glorious treasures shimmering just out of reach. _Taking a dip on the sea was right out; No matter how appealing it felt. _

No, he was not the type to give into random impulses.

… Also, his beard was an absolute _nightmare_ to dry, as many years in the City of Tears had taught him.

If there were relics out there, he would simply find another way; Charter a boat, perhaps.

The whispers hissed louder and louder, clamouring so loud and insistent it was like pins and needles within his mind; Images upon images upon _promises_.

His fingers itched.

It would be so easy, so _swift_.

And it would be so _nice_! _Just a quick dip_.

No. No, he had- _Oh_, but- _No_!

The waters _wanted_ him. They tugged at his mind, playing synapses like strings, begging him to take a plunge.

He could even forget about shedding his shell. It could strip him out from within, spit out the hard and unnecessary bits, take the mind, the flesh, build bigger, build better; A brick in the wall.

Static flowed through his head; It would be nice, so _nice_. He just had to walk in. Walk _in!_ _Walk into the water-_

“_No_!” Lemm found himself shouting over the terrible noise hissing through his mind, hands clamping down under his horns as if he could block out the clamouring with his fingers. “_I don’t want to swim_!”

Everything crashed to a halt.

The whispers lessened to a mere background hiss, pulling away like the tide.

Finally, he could _think_. He didn’t want to go _swimming_! He was hunting for relics, not some stupid _pleasure beach_, not… _Not_…

_He felt sick. _

He felt horribly, horribly, _sick_. The feeling crashed down upon him like water from a broken dam and Lemm found himself stumbling under the sheer force of a wave of nausea; Falling into a sitting position as the whole world began to buckle and spin underneath him.

He had looked away for only a moment, but in that time the expanse of ocean had _changed;_ The beautiful, rippling sheet twisting in front of his eyes into a writhing _mass_, moving like a great, shuddering animal, until Lemm realized… He wasn’t looking at water at _all_.

He was looking at the same grasping, thrashing tendrils that had driven him from his shop.

He was looking at the void, worshipped by the civilisation that had dwelled in these caverns long before Hallownest was a glimmer in the Pale King’s eye, the claws and limbs of which were lashing at the beach mere meters from his feet, kept only at bay by distance.

He had almost walked into it.

For a _swim_.

As he watched, half frozen in horrified realization, half pinned by a wash of gut clenching sickness, the strange liquid shuddered and bulged, twisting and clawing further, tendrils as tall as buildings rising and falling from its surface almost at random; Some punching through the ceiling to ravage whatever lived above, some falling back to try, try again.

It was thick and lumpy, the sea. How he had ever thought it smooth was a mystery; For the surface did not sit flat, no, it was mottled and pitted, looking all the world like a thick, textured soup; The violent tendrils dragging and flinging all kinds of detritus to the shore.

But out there… Just beyond the tendrils and spines… There was something else. Something strange.

A... Pillar?

Wait… _No_.

Lemm looked up.

The black sea of void did not just sit on the floor, obeying gravity as any good liquid should.

There was an ocean, just as vast and violent, coating the _ceiling_.

Streams and drops and waterfalls flowed between, but the pillar, bare of tendrils and free of movement beyond what he could only describe as the occasional _shudder_, was different; Thick in the middle in a manner hard to describe, and not flowing in any recognisable fashion, it just… Sat there, like the centre of an hourglass, a solid connection between two terrible things.

If he wanted to avoid getting wet, at some point he had failed, for Lemm found his beard to be sodden and matted with something that only resembled water and certainly did not _taste_ of it; Which stung his fingers bitterly as he tried to comb them through.

The air smelt like putrid flesh.

He had seen enough. He needed to leave.

The old bug pushed his hands against the ground in a vain attempt to stand, trying to ignore the world spinning on its axis as the weak remnants of his balance protested bitterly against the movement.

Lemm ignored it. There were no relics for him there, at the edge of a monstrous living sea, only danger.

The slick ground buckled under his fingers.

Caverns tended to be stone, and the beaches within them smooth gravel, yet the floor beneath… Didn’t feel like either; Too pliable, too soft, too _damp_, and with some trepidation, Lemm found himself peering through the darkness to find exactly _what_ he was touching.

It was shell.

As far as the eye could see, the ground was littered with discarded chunks of shell, wet and sticky, covered in mere scraps of flesh as if their owners had been cut away, expertly butchered like fine cuts of meat.

The one beneath his hand still had a mask attached, the mark of a _sentient bug_, the porcelain scratched roughly as if something had tried to tear it from its owner.

They were not the offcuts of animals. _They were people._

Lemm cringed as his fingers dipped into the eyeholes, tugging his limbs back as if the shredded corpses could burn him.

He was sitting amongst the remains of the dead. _He was almost one of them._

And, as the disgust finally pushed him over the edge, the old bug gagged on his nausea for a second, own spluttering voice coming as a surprise as he choked down the urge to purge his stomach into the remains of some other unlucky soul.

Sounds.

There were _sounds_.

How had he forgotten about his own hearing?

The sea roared like an engorged waterfall, but it wasn’t unaccompanied in its clamour, no; The cavern echoed with a crowded cacophony, the likes of which had gone unheard in Hallownest for centuries.

And far too late, Lemm realized he wasn’t alone, _no_, not in the slightest.

For he was _surrounded_ by bugs.

For some unholy reason, he had barely noticed them before. They had been flittering in and out of the corners of his eyes, yes, never lingering, never drawing attention, he’d been almost unable to notice them, and they’d certainly never lingered long enough for him to question nor consider in any real depth; So focused on relic seeking as he was.

But now?

Well, now there was nothing filtering the foggy, bug-shaped masses from his vision.

The very world rustled with their footsteps, overlain by a chorus of terribly thick, wet breathing. He could hear the occasional thud, the cracking of abandoned shells underfoot, and far-off shouts.

A stray drop from above, black and burning, spurred him back into the moment.

For reasons unknown, they weren’t noticing him in any capacity, but who knew how long that would last? He had to _go_.

The flesh, the monsters, the confusion, the unstoppable burning itching under his shell and through his beard, it was all more than enough to lift Lemm onto his flagging feet and get him _moving_.

To where? Well, it didn’t matter; The way he came, perhaps, but where was _that_?

From what? Well, that was more than obvious.

He hadn’t gotten a good look at the creatures crawling around him, but it didn’t take a genius to realize they were _not_ bugs.

Maybe once they were, in the same way the slinking, hate-fuelled abominations that once populated the City of Tears were bugs, but they _certainly_ weren’t anymore.

But how to escape without notice? He still didn’t feel quite right, as if something was still dwelling in his mind, whispering nonsense; _These bugs, these things, they posed a danger to him, a danger to his relics, he ought to deal with them, drag them into the sea, take them down-!_

Okay, no, absolutely _not_.

They were taking no notice of him now, crawling and oozing without even a passing glance, but who knew how long that would last?

If he merely slipped out, he would be seen, and potentially followed, and that would _lead them back to his home his relics his precious things he should stay he should-_

Something passed close enough to brush against him and Lemm _flinched_; Expecting it to lash out at his defenceless form.

Yet, it did not.

It just walked right past.

For now, they really were ignoring him.

He wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

\---

Quirrel kept his hands over his face.

Any second, _any second_, he knew things were going to go south.

Ghost's happiness had flooded his mind with some breathless excitement that he bitterly refused to partake in before shrivelling as fast as it had come.

_This was all their fault. _

He sighed. He'd only been able to give Hornet and Ogrim a mere second's warning before being consumed by the ever-present headache that accompanied Ghost's presence.

It had petered back, as it always did, but… So had everything else.

And the fact he hardly felt sick anymore, well, he was trying not to dwell on the implications of _that_ particular detail.

The fearful idea that Ghost stood between him and going mad with infection did absolutely nothing to choke away the sheer spike of _annoyance_ he felt at their presence.

It was _fine_, though. He was fine! It had all turned out… _Fine_.

If he kept telling himself that, maybe he’d start to believe it.

Nothing had initially happened, and there was no point waiting until it did, so he pulled his hands from his eyes and levered himself onto his elbows with a grunt, tense as a board, and turned to face the other two bugs. Ghost was coiling like a spring and he had to consciously force his own muscles to relax lest they decided to fling themselves at someone and start another bout of violence.

_“Y- Yo-u- You- Ki- Keh- Ke- K-”_ Ghost was trying to run their mouth but they could still hardly _say_ anything, either, too uncoordinated, too unused to speaking, Quirrel had hardly noticed at the time, but he himself had been helping them along, and with his help withdrawn and fresh panic mere seconds away, they were _floundering_.

It was enough to send him even further up the wall. A real achievement, all things considered, as he thought his stress levels had finally peaked. “-Wyrm! Stop! If you _k- kah- ca- can’t_ say it, stop trying!” He was too tired for this. He didn’t want to deal with them anymore. “_Well_, ma’am? They’re awake. You wanted to talk to them. _Please do_.”

“I-” Hornet stuttered, stepping up and crouching to his level. “This is weird. This is incredibly weird. And I hate it. But I have an idea. We will ask some questions, and then we’ll… Figure something out.” She cleared her throat. “Ghost? Is… Is it really you?”

_“… Y- Yes?”_ Confusion soaked their every syllable, they were so confused, even, they had fully forgotten to jump to some violent conclusion, which was… Nice.

What was less nice was that they were making _him_ feel confused, too. Which was… Weird. Confusion wasn’t like fear, not a bodily reaction, but a state of mind.

Then again, what did Quirrel know?

“Okay…” Hornet muttered, “… _Questions_… I will… Come up with some.”

Queen Hornet’s extremely advanced method of determining whether Ghost was real or a figment of his imagination turned out to be nothing more than a test of extremely specific trivia, from the exact routes they took through Hallownest, to the locations of hidden shortcuts and passages _(none of which they could remember, citing their need for a map)_, to even more detailed questions beyond that.

After being asked who taught them a specific spell, Ghost finally shot back a query of their own. _“Weh- Were you s- spy-ing?”_

“Yes.” Hornet said. “And I am also the one asking the questions here, not you; But I’m satisfied with that, they were all correct and there’s no way the Ar- That _Quirrel_ could have answered them all.” She paused for a second. “_Yet_… Defender, you do one.”

“Oh, okay!” He said with a false brightness, “Little friend, where did we first-”

_“S- S’wers.”_

“Ah, too easy for you. Very good! Well, you’ve been to my home, where do I-”

_“Poop.”_

He frowned. “… Now, that’s just unfair. However, I live in Dirtmouth now; Their information’s out of date, but… _Accurately_ so. No sickness nor madness would do that.” The knight lent forwards, squinting at Quirrel. “The old Infection never bothered to cover itself so well, if it were capable of planning at all.”

Hornet sighed. “Okay. _Okay_. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt; I’m going to… _Believe_ that this insane thing has happened, because I cannot see how someone could go so conveniently mad as to know all that, and I know better than most that our little Ghost held a talent for trouble. However, if this turns out to be a trick, I will _personally_ ensure you don’t come back again.”

“… Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, we need to plan. Ogrim, I need to discuss something with you outside." She stood to leave, Ogrim following swiftly. “We’ll be quick. Don’t try anything.”

_“Won’t.”_ Ghost whispered.

“I wasn’t intending to.” Quirrel muttered, watching at the two slipped inexplicitly easily through the thorn-coated doorway.

How did they do that? Watching the Hollow Knight, impossibly lithe and twisting, do it was one thing; But Hornet needed to mind her horns and it seemed impossible for Ogrim to fit without scratching great lines into his shell, yet both of them made it intact.

Also, it was all well and good what they were trying to do, but Quirrel couldn't help but wonder how much more effective their 'private' chat would be if they were actually speaking _quietly_. 

Because, as it was, he could hear every word perfectly; Drifting in on the humid air as if there was nothing more than a wall of plants in the way.

Oh, wait, there _was_ nothing more than a wall of plants in the way. Well, there was the problem.

"We need to go down after our bugs." Ogrim said forcefully, “It’s been _too long_ already.”

"I know-"

"It's been three days, we could have lost so many already, who knows what's being done to them? Ma'am, we _cannot_ delay any longer." 

"We can’t rush in! We need a solid plan, we need supplies! Ogrim,” Her voice grew hushed, “This isn't what I bought you out to discuss." 

"You're _almost_ right, ma'am. We needed a plan. We needed a plan _when it happened_."

"I know, I'm- I- If we rush in now, if we don’t prepare adequately, we could lose _ourselves_.” Hornet hissed. “I’m sorry, _I’ve already apologized_, I didn’t expect it to get this bad! Defender, please, rushing in like this isn’t like you.”

“… You’re right. I just… Now I know… I simply can’t stop thinking about them.” He sighed, “I knew many of the bugs working to evacuate Deepnest. Perhaps not personally, but I did my best to learn names and masks, and I shudder to think what’s befallen them.”

Their voices were growing fainter, and Quirrel grumbled a little as he realized he wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop much longer.

Thankfully, the two didn’t take very long, re-emerging through the thorned doorway as easily as they had exited.

“We have discussed and come up with a plan.” Hornet said, moving swiftly to stand in front of Quirrel. “We _cannot_ let you go,” She began. “The bureaucracy we’d need to go through would be intolerable.”

Quirrel stiffened slightly, “Oh.”

“However,” Ogrim said, “If you were to _escape_, well…”

Hornet nodded. “It would be a true shame, but with everything going on, easily swept under the rug as another unfortunate happening.” She paused, “You’ve both been busy. _Please_ tell me you have a plan.”

“We do, actually.” Quirrel said, “The means to remove this bug from my brain lie within the Ancient Basin, and I am _very keen_ to get there.” He paused, “Although, we’ll need a mask for them first. Is the Mask Maker still in Deepnest?”

“No.” Hornet said, “But this could work for us quite well. We’ll need to resupply, amongst other things, and I’ll need time to wrangle both political interests and send out new orders to our remaining guards. Upon your ‘_escape,’_ go the Basin and start your preparations. I will seek out the Mask Maker and meet you there as soon as I can.”

She sighed. “I have no doubt the Hollow Knight will want to accompany you, and I know for a fact I would never be able to _stop_ them, so I suppose we’ll have to wait for their return.” Hornet shifted. “You’d need to do so anyway, because they carry all of your things.”

“Why?”

“Why _what_?”

“Why did you give them all my things?”

“Because,” She paused. “They have _very_ large pockets…”

Well, that at least explained where his bandanna had gone. The poor thing had conspicuously disappeared at some point, leaving his antenna waving awkwardly, and Quirrel preferred the idea of it being put away with the rest of his worldly possessions rather than trampled and lost during the confusion.

He’d ask them about it, he supposed.

With nothing more to say, they settled into an uneasy silence

… Which was immediately broken by Ogrim. “_Well_, your Majesty?”

The Queen of Hallownest threw her head back with a groan. “_Really_?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” He looked more than smug. “You know, because you’re a _fair_, _kind_ bug who _listens_ to my counsel?”

“Fine!” Hornet turned to face Quirrel fully, arms crossed. “You survived. And I do not mourn my mistakes.”

Ogrim elbowed her, earning a glare. “_However_, I apologize for misunderstanding the situation and using lethal force. It wasn’t necessary.” She sighed, softer this time. “I should have taken your surrender. I’m sorry.”

He was more than a little taken aback. Hornet was not the kind of bug to apologise lightly. “I… Thank you. For apologizing. Um… Please don’t do it again?”

“_Humph_. Don’t give me reason to.” She pulled a face, patience at an end. “And do _not_ expect to hear me say such things again.”

She moved to face away, instinctively pulling her already-spotless needle from her back and producing a cloth to clean it.

Ghost had stiffened at the sight but kept themselves blessedly under control.

Ogrim, though, had twisted to watch the entrance.

“Ma’am?” He started slowly, “All this talk… I've just realised. You only asked the Hollow Knight to sweep the area, yes?” He stood. “… Haven't they been gone a rather long time?"

“… So they have.” Hornet said. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re just dragging their feet, but… Would you go fetch them? Check in with our sentries as well?”

“Of course.” Ogrim hauled himself to his feet. “Just a moment.”

Seeing a chance, Quirrel stood as well, finding his legs stiff; _So_ stiff he had to shake movement back into them. “I’m going for a walk.” He said, continuing with force as Hornet took a breath to, presumably, tell him no. “I need to clear my head. I won’t be long, and I won’t go far, but I need to get out of here.”

“… Fine. But be swift.” Hornet paused for a second. “Wait. Before you leave, Ghost?”

_“Yes?”_

“You are in extraordinary trouble. Do you understand me? What you have done… Assaulting my own guard… Turning yourself into an infection… These are not things I take lightly. The Archivist may be innocent in this matter, but you are not. Do not expect me to treat you as such. We will deal with this properly once you are back in your shell.” She nodded at Quirrel. “Once again, you have my apologies. I am… Adapting to this new Kingdom.” She grunted. “Do not expect to hear me say that again. Enjoy your walk.”

As he slipped through the vines, Quirrel glanced back to see Ogrim dip in closer to speak, clapping Hornet on the back as if she’d made some great achievement, before leaving swiftly in the other direction.

He didn’t care. Wyrm. He just needed a minute.

_“I’m- En- In- Infect-ion?”_

Ghost was still there. Ghost was still there and going nowhere even though they were the one he needed space from most of all; Their every twitch only contributing to his growing annoyance.

Just hold it in… Ignore it.

Yet, he couldn’t help but dwell. It had all just happened!

He stepped out, hopped platforms until he was sure he’d moved out of earshot, and finally took a deep, deep breath.

Inhale… Exhale…

He wasn’t insane.

But he was _mad_.

“Well.” Quirrel spoke through gritted mandibles. “That was just… _Great_.”

_“K… Kirral-”_ Their voice grated at him, more than ever before. What did they think they were doing? What did they expect to happen? They had- He had- That could have been- Wyrm, they’d thrown him to his death!

He shoved his anger down as much as he could. It was fine. He was still alive. Things could still be fixed.

But still, he seethed. “_Don’t_.” Quirrel spat, uncaring as they flinched at his words. 

“Just… Don’t.”

\---

Outside the little gazebo, between the spiked vines and the stone, the lush, beautiful garden stretched as far as the eye could see.

The cavern must have been huge, one single cave, a far cry from the split and walled offerings making up the rest of Hallownest. The air was thick with life, the misty steamy smell of mulch and mist, drops of water condensing heavy on Quirrel’s carapace from the laden air.

And it was a _garden_. The name of the place was… Something Garden. Gardens? It was right on the tip of his tongue…

Ghost would know. But the less they said, the better.

There were platforms that swung like trapdoors mere seconds after setting foot on them with nothing more than a warning creak, and even though his aching soul was nowhere near full, still scraping the metaphorical bottom, Quirrel found himself simply warping his way over thorn-covered gaps rather than risk a fall.

He would be fine, he knew, but… No spikes. Not now.

Not far from the next section of solid ground, he came across a shadowy pit.

It seemed to plunge straight down into darkness, _true_ darkness, not the void shadowed kind; The grassy edges thin and sagging, held up from below by nothing more than piles of thorns and ramshackle scaffolding.

It gave Quirrel the strange suspicion that this hole had not actually been there very long, no, once it was nothing more than a grassy courtyard, he was sure of it.

And the hole, well, it was a sinkhole, which he could only assume was a _very_ deep one indeed; Complete with an unsteady sign staked into the crumbling ground nearby, the letters written so sloppily and hastily he had to lean close to read it.

“… Warning! Hole.”

_“I… Is deep.”_

“Ghost, quiet.”

Well. He supposed he would take the warning, the shrivelled corpse of some strange-looking mantis youth crunching as he knocked it aside with a foot as he edged around the hole and continued onwards.

It only took a few minutes to find a dead-end. A dusty old viewing platform furnished with nothing more than a bench and a gramophone, piping tinny music over the expansive view.

There must have been a window there at one point, but all that remained were piles of shattered glass; Seemingly kicked out of the way in a hurry by unknown bugs, leaving a rough path to the bench; Upon which Quirrel gratefully sat.

The view must have been lovely, once. They were atop a cliff within the cavern, a great valley running below, twisting between miles upon miles of lush greenery, fading away into the misty distance, still no walls in sight; An almost impossible thing, for a cave.

The valley probably carried a river, back when the place saw more use.

But it only ran with black now, all greenery stripped as far as the void could reach, bare banks of soil and stone stretching along the valley as far as the eye could see.

What was interesting, though, was that anything already dead seemed… Untouched.

Quirrel could see a small wooden building, possibly a fishing hut, sitting just upon the edge of the black river. It had been smashed quite badly, yet the wood had been left; Despite all the plant material around it being cleared.

Looking closer, he could see little fingers of the stuff rising and falling between the boards. Fascinating, how it seemed to leave the wood alone, yet would tear vividly through his shell if he so much as _slipped_-

_No_. No, not thinking about it.

He was especially not thinking about how the black river ran _directly_ under the viewing platform.

Quirrel stepped back from his sightseeing. No thinking, no, he just intended to sit back, rest his aching shell, and take a moment.

The music was annoying, and only got worse as, with a horrible rattling sound, the ages-old sound system popped and skipped and scratched and _jammed_ the moment he sat, playing the same few notes over and over as the hidden system jumped back upon itself with an audible thud, the needle of the record player catching on some unknown snag.

The sound was grating and drove Quirrel to swat at the gramophone from where he sat, fingers only grazing the trumpet until he finally gave up and stood, joints screaming, to smash it to the ground with _slightly_ more force than necessary.

The temptation to get up and run away from everything was intense, but he ignored it. While the plan to get down to the White Palace still stood, with everything _else_ going on, he didn’t really know what to do anymore.

Also, the Hollow Knight probably still had all his things, which made it a little harder to run off.

Quirrel sighed. He didn’t have the energy to go any further, but it didn’t matter, he just wanted the chance to choose where he rested for a moment instead of following the whims of others. A moment of peace after one of the most stressful days he could remember.

Apart from the churning of the void, the world was quiet and Ghost was still, to the point it felt like he was almost alone, and Quirrel supposed that was the best he was going to get.

Which was good, because he intended to sit by the broken windows until he felt _better_.

\---

The guards watched the Hollow Knight go with… Confusion.

“That was weird.” One of them said, peering round the plants to watch them go. “Do you think something’s up? Should we go check?”

“Nah.” The only sentry in the group said, standing. “Probably nothing to worry about. That was _weird_, yes, but not _Hollow Knight_ weird, there’s a difference.”

“_Is there now_.” One of her fellows, an old guard from the city, muttered. “Weird is weird.”

“No, no, weird was walking in, staring at us for a bit, and walking off again; Anyone could do that.” She said, matter-of-factly, “_Hollow Knight weird_ is like that time in town hall with the draperies, only _they_ could’ve pulled that off.”

“That was them?”

“That was them! I was there. ‘Had to walk up to the queen herself and ask if she knew they were pulling down all the curtains or if they were just allowed to do that now.”

Another guard snorted from nearby. “_Please_ tell me you phrased it like that.”

“Do I look like a coward? Of course.” The Sentry snorted, “We were too late, though. Why do you think their cloak is the exact same colour as the old draperies?”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’d never do such a thing!” The Sentry cried, mock hurt. “What do you take me for? Still though,” She looked in the direction they’d gone, the Stag Station sign standing clear against the foliage.

“_I do wonder where they’re going_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little note before I forget; I've gone back and updated the end of chapter 8 to bring it more in line with the current characterisation I'm going for, and I'm much happier with it now! I encourage you to go back and read it, on account of it being different now, and all.
> 
> You know, in the original draft the events of this chapter, the last two, and the next were all contained in a few paragraphs; I'm not sure if that means I've made it better or made it worse.  
Anyway,  
Thanks again for all the kind comments! I'd like to respond to them all, but I can't do that without:
> 
> A) Spoiling something  
B) Spoiling something else  
C) Telling that one person who nailed it that they nailed it, which I presume would spoil a lot of things all at once 
> 
> Also I only know like, three words, so I'd tucker out pretty quickly.  
I do intend to go back and respond to a few standout ones once certain plot points have been hit though, lets hope I remember!


	16. Quirrel Gets To Yell (And Faces The Consequences)

Internally, Ghost writhed. 

Quirrel _couldn’t_ be mad at them.

No, Quirrel couldn’t be _mad_ at _them!_

It had to be something else!

He had to be… _Grumpy_! Yes, merely grumpy. Surely that was it, they were grumpy the first time _they_ died too, although at the time they hadn’t recognised it as such, of course; Being gruesomely torn apart was never a fun activity, and it was perfectly _normal_ and _understandable_ to be _just a little_ put out about it!

They steeled themselves with this knowledge. _He was just grumpy._

_With them. _

That was fine. Grumpy was fine.

After all, if he was _mad_ at them… Well, then maybe he _hated_ them.

And that, _well_, that was a scary thought.

Even if, maybe, they deserved it.

So, they tried to be quiet, _unnoticeable_. They squirreled themselves away as deep and detached as they could go, thinned out like gas, but it was _harder_ than before. They felt… Misfitting, now. A few sizes too large, squeezing at the seams between the bindings in a way they swear they _hadn't_.

They _couldn't_ simply withdraw as they had before. In fact, it ached to try; An incorporeal bulging of their form accompanying their attempts, giving the terrible feeling that they were going to burst outwards elsewhere like a squeezed balloon.

They subsided, they were no fool, but once they were aware of it, the ill-fitting tightness _remained_.

It _pulled_ at them, an attachment they couldn't shed, a tendon tugged to breaking. 

They merely did their best to still their movements. To turn unnoticeable.

It was all _wrong_. There was something wrong, they were sure of it.

They didn’t remember anything past being stabbed; And while they were not so ignorant of cause and effect that they couldn’t put together the activation of the Teacher’s spells and waking up again, whatever had happened in the interim was a mystery to them, their _own_ void laying thick upon their memory, blotting events out.

Hornet had let them go with confusingly little ceremony, admitting to being in the _wrong_ as she went, something so strange for her they had to reach out and check for signs of disease right then and there.

They couldn’t reach into other minds very far as they were; But she was clean, merely being prompted by Ogrim to be _nice_.

But there was still something strange. Something suspicious, or weird, or unsettling. It made them _itch_; Not physically, but inside; Where they strained against Monomon’s bindings, where their mind and form blurred disconcertingly away into somebody else, where their power laid empty, refilling far too slowly after a flurry of activity they couldn’t recall.

And the _void_… Not only did it dance tantalisingly close and dangerous, barely a short drop through the shattered window, but it gurgled and clawed deep in the well inside of them, now different to the stuff outside in a way that made them uneasy, yet quintessentially the same.

What was happening? They didn’t know, and _that_ made them uneasy too.

They had missed so much, and no one was telling them _anything_; In fact, it felt as if _they_ were being relied on for answers when they actually had none!

The Hollow Knight had gone somewhere? There was something about missing bugs and the void? What?

But despite all of that, they could only focus on one thing. One bad thing, that topped it _all_.

Grumpy or not, _Quirrel was upset._

Quirrel was upset with them and something was _up_.

\---

No one came looking for Quirrel in the end.

He hadn’t intended to go back himself, he intended to wait for someone to come looking, to make them work for it, just a little, but as the minutes ticked on… No one turned up.

He supposed, that could be a bad thing; It could mean the Hollow Knight hadn’t been found, it could mean trouble had ignited, it could mean Hornet had been incapacitated, it could mean Ogrim had been infected, it could mean all that and more.

Or… It could mean he got a few more minutes on the bench.

He was hoping for the latter.

The void gurgled below, reaching tendrils barely brushing the little windowed retreat, although they did try.

Quirrel eventually found himself slipping off the bench in favour of the window ledge.

Turns out, the seat had not actually been cleared of glass; And he didn’t need any more injuries.

… Not that he had any, anymore.

Quirrel had finally had a chance to give himself a once-over, and unsurprisingly, he was totally, 100%, _uninjured_.

Supernaturally so, even. He couldn’t remember the last time his shell was in such good condition, and he was still doing his damnedest not to think about the implications of it all.

Well, that wasn’t quite true, he was still absolutely _filthy_, but underneath the dirt and blood, everything was in order. Even the little acid-burnt pits in his arm had disappeared, seemingly buffed out by the same magic that had repaired his ankle just as easily as it had turned Hornet’s speeding needle into nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

And yet.

He _ached_.

Trudging through a wild garden and hopping horribly rickety platforms hadn’t helped much, and he’d never claim to expect _not_ feeling his own… _Injury_… The next morning, but the aches didn’t seem to correspond to _anything_.

His back hurt. His shoulders hurt. But neither of those spots had seen any _particular_ grief.

He didn’t have the flexibility to look, only to glimpse some dark discolouration out of the corner of his eye, but under his fingers it felt as if patches of his shell had been sanded completely smooth above the painful sites, to the point where it was almost… Greasy.

And it was a _weird_ pain. Some kind of deep-tissue, outwards _pushing_; Similar in some ways to the terrible headache Ghost was able to spark whenever they felt like it, yet different in a manner he couldn’t place.

… He was probably overthinking it. Chances are, the weird patches were nothing more than more dirt, just caked on and dried flat; He would try and dislodge them later.

Either way, the looming void made for some light entertainment at least; He’d taken to scooping things off the ground: Rocks, shards of glass, handfuls of grass torn up from cracks in the floor as if he were a bored grub on a field trip, and tossing them in.

Most things bounced off, skittering down the surface of the reaching tendrils to sink into the unescapable river at the bottom as if it were nothing more than thick mud. That was the fate faced by every rock or sliver of glass he threw.

The _grass_, though…

The void grasped it, sucking it up hungrily and almost digesting it then and there, grass finding itself torn to pieces by grabbing fingers, the green inside spreading across the reaching fronds for only a few tantalising milliseconds like an oil slick before the darkness swallowed it whole.

One would assume that would be the fate of all organic material, but no. Quirrel tossed in a few dried, dead old sticks to test, but they bounced off in the same manner as the rocks; The acid of the void still burning them, still peeling the bark, but rejecting them entirely.

It seemed; The uncontrolled void only sought out _live_ prey.

He supposed that was another good reason to not fall in.

The constant noise was actually kind of relaxing, though. A thrumming, gurgling, low-level hiss; With a bit of imagination, it could _almost_ be running water.

_“Mm…”_ Unfortunately, Ghost decided to start talking. _“Kah- Kirrel?”_

“What? What now?” He rubbed at his face, under his mask, he couldn’t keep still, he was still so… So… _Angry_ at them; It hadn’t been long enough, everything had just happened, and no amount of distraction was going to change how fresh the last few hours still felt. “What could you possibly want now?”

“_Ah... I-mm…”_ They stuttered pathetically.

Huffing a breath, Quirrel muttered “Ghost, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.”

_“Yuh-You... O- Okay?”_ Okay? They were asking if he was ‘_okay’_?

“Am I okay? _Really_? Am I okay? No! I am not.” He hissed. “Leave me alone, Ghost.”

_“A- Ah.”_ They fidgeted, _“Mm… T- Talk ab-out it?”_

“No. I am _not_ going to talk about it.” Quirrel snapped, “If I talk about it, I will _shout_ at you, because I am _fff_-” He broke into a hiss, “-_Furious_ with you. And we need to get along. Don’t ask again.”

_“… A-h. Okh-okay... I- Ah- I… ‘M… Sorry.”_

“It’s _fine_.” He forced out, everything from the tone of his voice to the set of his body screaming very clearly that it was _not_ fine.

They quieted, stilling until it felt like he was once again almost alone, and Quirrel supposed that was the best he was going to get.

…

On second thought… He didn’t want to sit there anymore.

In fact, he suddenly felt like heading back, back where there wasn’t the time or space to field _questions_.

He stood, glass clattering around him as he kicked it out of the way, almost stalking back the way he’d came.

The ground around the sinkhole was beginning to sag in places, he found, skirting it with less care and harsher steps then he really should; One misplaced foot punching through the grass and into the cavity below, causing him to yelp and stumble in a scramble to stay on solid ground as the whole sagging patch of grass collapsed inwards and fell into darkness.

Clearly, the sign needed to be amended. There was more to worry about then the hole.

Apart from what the little scramble had done to his heart rate, Quirrel was, for once, hardly shaken.

However, that didn’t last long, for it was at that point that Ghost started talking again.

_“… Ah- Are y-ou… Sure..?”_

“Sure of _what_?”

_“Sss- Sure you-re… Oh- Ookay?”_

“Am I… _Sure_? Am I _sure_ I’m _okay_?”

Oh, so that was all they wanted.

Well, _fine_. If they were so keen to know; After all, he was _done_ pretending he wasn’t angry at them.

Quirrel knew, logically, that he should just drop it.

He knew they were _not_ a bug, and he should never have expected them to think or act like one.

They were not a bug, but they were _vessel_; And he knew just what horrors their creation entailed, didn’t he? They had lived surrounded by _nothing_ but husks and danger, their reactions were almost sensible in that context, and did they not deserve the benefit of the doubt?

_Didn’t he? _

But he couldn’t help it.

Oh, _but he couldn’t help it._

He was _furious_.

“Am I sure? Well, I don’t know.” He hissed. “Instead, how about I ask _you_ a question, Ghost? What in the name of the Wyrm did you intend to achieve by **_THROWING ME TO MY DEATH?_**” Quirrel’s voice rose to a shout in an instant, shattering his own calm veneer. “I would ask you what you were thinking, but you weren’t _thinking_ at all!” His voice broke with a painful twang from the sheer, climbing volume of it.

He could feel void welling in this throat, responding to his upset. It felt, somehow, like soul; Yet so alien it would be an insult to compare them, and he swallowed it back down.

“Ogrim was willing to _listen_! He was going to speak to Hornet, he was going to help us sort things out! It would have been so easy to get out of there without violence, all we had to do was explain properly, but you- _You_-"

_"-B-But- I-"_

"_No_! You do _not_ get to interrupt me! Not this time!" Quirrel practically screamed, "How am I supposed to trust you now? How am I supposed to trust you when, even as I begged you to stay quiet and let me deal with it, you _ignored_ me?"

_"Buh- But- They- Danger!" _

"The only danger I saw there was _you_." He snapped, jabbing a finger at the air as if they stood in front of him. "_You_ attacked Ogrim, _you_ shot acid out of my face! You used me- _Not for the first time_\- To hurt somebody! I suppose, at least _this_ time I knew about it!"

He kept walking, still fuming; Hardly noticing as the edge sagged and dipped once more under his feet. “I have been nothing but helpful to you. Even after you possessed me, kidnapped me, and injured me. I helped you because you are my friend and I _care _about you. But you hurt someone whilst wearing my face and did not even _tell_ me. And when I found out, you threw me into a battle I cannot win. Getting stabbed _hurts_, you know!”

_“Buh- But…”_ They stuttered, their words only serving to add fuel to the fire, _“The- They were… Dan-ger! I H- Helped!”_

“Helped? _Helped?_” He snapped back, “You didn’t help me at all! You got me _killed!_”

“W- Why?” Quirrel’s voice faltered and his eyes started to water as something twisted in his throat like a knot, void crawling up like a living thing. “Why did you- Why did you do that? I- I died. I r- really… D- I…”

His sentence crashed to a trembling halt as Ghost started to cry.

A trickle became a stream became a flood until he couldn’t get any more words out. He felt himself crumple inside, his breaths coming sharp, speech shuddering and breaking into illegibility.

“Na- Now you’re m- making me… Ghost- Please- I’m a- Gr- Grown-” Quirrel tried to go on, speaking in hiccups more than words, but fat, grey-stained tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his mask, his throat constricting until he could only let out trembling whimpers between erratic gasps for air. They were making him sob like a child. _Like a grub!_

They were distraught. Why? He couldn’t pretend they’d done no wrong. They _needed_ to know. He just wanted an apology.

_How _young_ were they?_

_How young were they, to react so strongly, without warning?_

It wasn’t just the crying, it wasn’t just the physical aspect, _he felt it_, he felt what _they_ were feeling; Like an all-encompassing wave of emotion, hitting his mind and swallowing his anger, his thoughts, everything, under something impulsive and howling and so, so intense, it felt like he was going to burst.

Ghost spluttered and wailed unintelligible words as Quirrel’s knees hit the ground.

The tears burnt black, his insides filling with it until he felt like he was drowning and breathless.

He wrapped his arms around himself, tried to get a hold, calm down, but he _couldn’t_. Their sadness hurt physically, as all sorrow did. Burning through their whole form but in a borrowed body it wrecked the both of them; Folding him in two, choking his voice and tightening his chest until he could do nothing more than curl up into a ball so tight no one could hear, and cry with them.

\---

_What he needed,_ Lemm decided, _was a distraction._

Not just to keep those creatures off his back, but to keep his mind on _track_; Anything to replace whatever was trying to worm into his head.

Lemm was no fool, he knew how these things worked; It needed him to pay _attention_ to it, and, for now, he had the clarity of mind to deny it that foothold.

But what would do? He was no warrior; He’d survived the infection through cunning and isolation alone.

He squinted through the darkness as best as he could, past the shambling figures and the piles of shell tossed like driftwood against the shore.

If he lent just right, peering into the gloom, he could just make out a pale light; Shining from within a particularly fresh pile of detritus, as if it were just thrown to the shore.

And, shuffling closer, he could hear a weak croak from within, wet and faint as if its owner were already half drowned.

He knew that noise.

_It was the cry of a Belfry._

Getting himself blown up was not on the cards, yet Lemm still picked his way over to get a better look, shifting the chunk of shell, still wet and disgusting, to get a better look at the creature beneath.

It was different to the Belfrys he knew from before. Free of infection, it glowed from within with a weak pale light; Floppy and almost pliable under his fingers as he scooped it up, careful to avoid touching the taught and fragile dome of its belly, lest he set the creature off.

The poor thing was half dead already, wheezing pitifully between his palms, but still deadly in its own way.

He could use that, perhaps.

He had to be sensible with it, careful, but an explosion would be one hell of a good distraction.

If he remembered correctly, Belfries ignited on impact with the ground as they flung themselves from their nests. They could not explode whenever they wanted.

That was good! It would not go off in his face unless he dropped it. Unfortunately, that also meant he’d have to throw the damned beast himself.

He just needed to find a wall, or a rock, or something; Anything he could safely detonate it against and then… And _then_… Make a run… _For it…_

_… The void wanted it._

At some point, Lemm had made a bit of a miscalculation.

Ignoring the void did not deny it a handhold, nor did gaining an awareness of its presence within his mind afford him any protection.

_It simply forced it to work a little harder._

It did not ask politely, it did not barter with words and thoughts, it didn’t communicate in a coherent way at _all;_ It tore into his mind, all screaming static and a senseless, blood-pumping, _babbling_, filling him to the brim like a glass of water until it overflowed back _out_, tearing his consciousness from its moorings and leaving no room for anything except its consuming, repeating, _commands_.

_It wanted the Belfry. _

_It wanted it more than him. _

It was _starving_; It ached for meat and flesh in a way Lemm could only compare to hunger yet somehow came nowhere close; It was not a need, nor a desire; It was something viscerally deep yet equally shallow.

Hunger served to maintain the _self_, yet the primeval void had no need; Mindless and ancient, it had dwelled in the deep long before him and would do so long afterwards; _It needed nothing._

And yet, it demanded.

It demanded _him_. It demanded the _Belfry_. It demanded to be _fed_.

And it was walking him right back toward its waters. 

It really _did_ want him to swim.

And it wanted him to bring his little friend, too.

He was holding it tight. Foolishly, stupidly _tight_, foot falling over foot, step over step.

_No_-

No, no- He _didn’t_\- _He didn’t even want to be there-_

He didn’t- _He didn’t!_

No! He didn’t want to _swim_, he didn’t want to be _noticed_, and he certainly didn’t want to be _marched to his death_ by that unending, demanding, _hissing_!

Could nothing in this damned kingdom do _anything_ without his help?

Stubbornness and negativity had a way of bubbling to the surface of the mind, avoiding the choking endless _blankness_ of the void and dragging vital thoughts with them, an anchor for the consciousness.

“I- If-” He muttered, words falling as he grasped at the straws of his own defiance. “- If you’re so… Damned _hungry_… You can- You can just-”

With what will he had left, Lemm planted his feet, falling to a stop at the edge of the void sea; His whole body trembling, not with fear or with sickness, but with all the rage he could summon.

“-You can just **_take_**_ the damned Belfry_!”

Hands over head, he threw it.

The old bug may not have been a good shot, but an entire ocean was a hard target to miss.

And, to his surprise, it flew far; Air catching under wilted wings for a final flight.

It did not stay up for long, however, falling into a limp dive and spiralling down between tendrils and spines to hit the bare void below with what could have been a loud thud.

Except, of course, there was no thud.

Because, despite its weakness, the Belfry exploded just as ferociously as the rest of its kind.

And the void _screamed_.

A great wave, not of sound, but of _unsound_, radiated from every speck, every surface of void; Dampening every sound, every hurried footstep, every breath until the cavern was _silent_.

If Lemm ever designed to tell this story back, he would probably try and make the whole thing seem courageous or intentional.

He would probably try to think of something brave to say, as the void trashed the cavern to pieces around him, trying to find its assailant; As the cave quaked silently beneath his feet and the sea thrashed in distorted fury, as the burnt crater upon its gelatinous surface began to sink inwards, not healing but sealing, new void pouring in over the old as the lashing tendrils almost, _almost_ reached him, forcing him to take a few hurried steps back to avoid accidentally befalling the very fate he’d been trying so hard to evade.

He probably wouldn’t mention that it wasn’t exactly the distraction he’d wanted. Or a distraction at _all_, actually, because suddenly the bug-shaped smears wandering around the edges of his vision, ignoring him, had stopped.

And they had all turned to look.

At him.

And, instead of brave words, all he could do was clear his void-muffled throat, ignoring the fact it made no noise at all, and silently say;

“Oh, _bollocks_.”

At the very least, no matter how unwell he felt, the roiling sea ahead and the monstrous bugs on all sides were more than enough to encourage him to _run_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hidden hero of our story... The humble Belfry...
> 
> Also Quirrel and Ghost are having a 2x combo meltdown but let's just ignore that for the moment... 
> 
> This chapter would have been coming sooner but I've been having big confidence issues with my work lately and also I decided to play Mass Effect for three weeks straight for only tangentially related reasons  
Apparently the best way to improve your writing is to consume new media and narratives so technically I was doing the right thing there 
> 
> Yeehaw


	17. Decent Into Deepnest

Ghost’s emotions boiled within their stolen shell.

They roiled and writhed and spat inwards and outwards, churning like rough water, in and out.

They were _bad_.

_They were bad!_

They were bad and Quirrel hated them forever and they had done so much wrong and they had hurt him and they had hurt everyone and they were so terribly evil they _hadn’t even noticed._

It wasn’t fair! They were trying to save him! He should have been thanking them!

But… They knew that wasn’t true, even as the thought crossed their mind. They had made it all worse. _They had got both of them killed._

The nightmare was right. They deserved it. They deserved it all.

Everything collapsed back in on them at once.

Every bad thought, every bad feeling, the guilt of their actions and all the anger and upset they had tried to bottle away where they didn’t matter, came crashing down upon them, swollen and thick with regret and sorrow.

It felt like it was all crystallising, clarifying, condensing. Distilling into something newer, stronger, and _rotten_.

They had never felt anything like it before.

It was _heavy_; So heavy it smashed through their mind, crushing any small, optimistic parts of them still left until there was nothing but the all-consuming _sadness_.

It went back the other way, too. They weren’t alone in there, it wasn’t their head, they had _stolen_ it; Just another part of their evil, and the divide had been growing terribly, _worryingly_, thin. Quirrel’s anger towards them filtered through that fuzzy separation, mixing and instilling within them some kind of hysterical _fury_.

They couldn’t _breathe_. Air only came in quick gasps that left as soon as they came, their head growing light and their limbs turning numb and sharp and they tried to claw their way out of their own head, away from their own emotions, only succeeding in tearing away at the ground.

They couldn’t _move_ for it. It was self-feeding. Every breath, every thought, every cry compounded back upon them and made it worse. Shame and guilt and distress bouncing throughout their shell in some horrid dance.

_Their sadness was killing them. _Ghost realized. They shrieked and rocked and kicked and clenched but they couldn’t _get it out. They were being eaten by their own thoughts and feelings_, an acid of their own making that coursed through them until they couldn’t think, only lie on the ground in a ball, their eyes and face and throat burning with something terrible and sad and miserable until they were melting with it.

They couldn’t handle it. Their ability to feel was too fresh, too new, and it came too intense.

They could do nothing but screech and cry and gasp wet, unfulfilling breaths and yet it went further, they could feel it spilling over, rebounding through them, pouring down to the void at their centre until it _screamed_ with it.

They had already spent so much of their power, gone in a flurry they couldn’t recall, but the void comprised the very _core_ of their being, and it recovered far faster than any form of _soul_.

_And their grip on it was slipping. _

They were a _god_, and the tantrum of a god could level cities. 

They were a god, but with their power deadened by flesh and blood they could hardly do _anything,_ their reach limited only to their immediate environment, the full force of the void cut off from them.

They could tear their way out if they wanted. They could shred Quirrel to pieces and shed him off like an old shell, it would be so _easy_. The bindings would be unable to stand up to the destruction of their anchoring and then they would be _free_.

The fact they even _entertained_ the thought made them feel sick, made them feel many times worse.

_And they were doing it anyway. _

They were a fool to not have noticed.

All those strange aches and pains spread throughout their body, the terrible headache that bloomed whenever they tried to do anything, that was them. That was where the binds failed to contain them, where they bulged through, pushing where they shouldn’t.

Why, though? The spells had worked perfectly at first! They had been bundled up so nicely!

What were they doing wrong? _What else could they have possibly done wrong?_

They could feel the room coming down around them, lashing tendrils of void spilling from them in some desperate attempt to protect them from the source of their distress but the source was _them_.

The ground beneath them shifted a little, but that was enough to set them off further, that was enough to make them _jump_, their senses scattering in shock, trying to see the danger as well as destroy it.

And they could see everything.

They could see themselves, a pathetic, trembling ball of dirt and shell and limbs; And it hurt. It hurt to see so much at once, they were pushing it too far, the headache building to bursting, but they couldn't _stop_.

_They couldn’t stop!_

Their face burnt, their head ached, they always stopped using the void stopped utilising their senses when it began to twinge but they couldn’t they couldn’t they were too upset it was just pouring from them and Quirrel hated them already so who cared who cared it was already all ruined so who cared really who cared the pain built and built behind their mask until it was blinding until it made them cry harder like a pressure pushing against the inside of their head like the tears behind their eyes but worse worse so much worse stabbing outwards the void tearing apart the room to save them from their invisible assailant in vain the pain building until it was almost _unbearable_ until something was going to _burst_-

There was a sharp _crack_, a noise like splitting shell; Issuing from so close to their head it may as well have come from their mask, and a gristly _pop_.

And the blinding headache… All but disappeared.

It was still there, still painful, yet barely noticeable against the rest.

That didn’t matter, though. They were still shuddering and wailing like a grub, still wallowing in soft, muddy ground, still burning themselves with every sniff, every tear.

And around them, the world began to _howl_.

They thought, for a second, it came from _them_; And it did, in a way. But, at the same time, the sound seemed to issue from all around, seemed to claw its way out of the shadowed pit sitting mere meters from their form, seemed to crash through the broken windows overlooking the void-tarnished valley, seemed to punch right from their gut, from where dark liquid underlaid their form.

_The void itself was screaming. _

The noise was cacophonous, yet, simultaneously, soundless.

They couldn’t stop hearing it, but somehow, they had to _strain_ to hear it.

_Was it for them? Was it screaming for them?_

It was chased, quickly, by a wave of utter, dead, _silence_; So profound it almost shocked them out of their now-noiseless hysterics.

Pure, choking, unsound.

And, as it washed over them, the whole world began to _shake_.

It was all going by so fast. _Everything was happening so fast; _they couldn’t keep up. First, they were shouting, then they were crying, then they were hurting, and then, _then_-

_-Then they were falling. _

The soft edge of the hole, unsupported from underneath and worn by centuries without maintenance, finally caved under their weight as the shaking grew harsher and their thrashing came to an end.

… Not a great place to have a tantrum.

They tumbled, hitting a ledge below, scrubbing to grab hold of _something_ but they couldn’t see through eyes swollen with black tears; Quirrel screaming something they couldn’t understand through the absence of sound, the movement of mandibles not enough, and they hit the air as the soil crumbled underneath their fingers and dropped them into the shaft.

They didn’t need eyes to see, but they were still trying to hold in sobs and they felt awful and terrible and who cared if they were going to land on spikes they were bad and unpleasant and they had caused so much trouble and they were sticky and wet and gross and their face and throat hurt and they had forced that all on Quirrel too and- THE SPIKES _THE SPIKES THE SPIKES THE SPIKES, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO-_

There was a visceral crunch, and a feeling of pain thankfully brief, and when they awoke again, the world was still once more, they were on a cold stone floor, hands massaging away the dregs of a headache as the dark around them rattled and hissed with the echoing sounds of _movement_.

\---

_“-S-orry Sssorr-y s- sorry so-rry sorry sorry sorry sorry-”_

“-_Ghost. _I told you, it’s _fine_.”

Quirrel gazed up at the faint light of the garden above, the hole they’d dropped through now so far above he could cover it with his hand.

The light flickered and rippled at random, and every now and again, writhing, fist-sized drops of void fell from above, making him, privately, quite glad he wasn’t still up there.

Unfortunately, void wasn’t the only thing falling from above. Quirrel tried to ignore the torn bits of _himself_ scattered over the landing site, wrecked by falling through the thorns above. That was something he would come to terms with much, _much_ later.

“… I guess Deepnest was a surprise…” He said after a while, the terrible skittering and dark atmosphere unmistakable. “… And the horns.” He added, fingers straying to feel the crown of _exceedingly sore_ lumps that had formed around his mask after Ghost had pushed their headache powers to their limits.

He wasn’t really sure what to think about them. Out of everything, they were possibly the _least worst_ thing, to the point where he couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed about them.

A good set of horns represented the height of beauty back before the kingdom fell, no doubt influenced by the unnaturally perfect crown of the Pale King himself, with size and symmetricity prized above all else; To the point many bugs wore fakes, built directly into their masks or attached to their shells.

Quirrel was certain he’d never bought into it; Trends came and went all the time.

But, while he certainly wouldn’t be winning any prizes, they were at least… _Neat_.

That being said, it was a pain that they had cracked right through his shell with no regard for joints or seams, leaving thin, flaking cracks that had _not_ disappeared when he-

-After-

-During his latest-

_-After he took a bunch of thorns to the everywhere and woke up again unharmed._

It was a good thing he was already so used to mental gymnastics, otherwise he’d have to actually face what had just occurred.

_“S… Ssorry.” _Ghost said again, _“Did- Didn mea- D-”_ Their sentence stumbled to an ungainly halt with a sigh.

“I already told you, it’s- _It’s_-” Quirrel stuttered, and wilted. “… _It’s not fine_.”

“It’s just…” He wasn’t sure if his anger had been tempered by Ghost taking a sledgehammer to the rest of his feelings, or by the _thing with the thorns_ acting as a nice reset to his temper, _or_ by the small fact that airing out your grievances, on the whole, really does help.

“I’m not… _That_ angry at you, I’m just… _Very_ disappointed. I… Understand that you were… ‘Born’ into a dangerous Hallownest, for lack of a better term, but what helped you then will not help you now. What you do isn’t without consequences.” He took a steadying breath, “Ghost, I’m not happy. But I understand why you acted that way, and I understand why you became so upset.” He sighed, “I just… I’d appreciate it if you left me alone for a little bit longer. Stay quiet, please.”

Ghost took in a breath to talk, and then, stopped short; Mandibles coming back together with a quiet click as they gave a small nod.

“Thank you.” Quirrel sighed again and peered around the cave; It looked like a magma chamber, carved by boiling heat, the ground underneath his feet porous where once lava had poured through. The air was still thick with perfume and moisture from the land above, but beyond that he could smell the sweet rot of the fungal wastes, and that was how he had entered Deepnest _before_, so at least he couldn’t be too far from an exit. He had no weapon, which was an issue, but he would survive, apparently even if he shouldn’t! Which was still _really_ horrifying, and he was still not thinking about it, but if he allowed the Madame to do it than he would just deal with the consequences.

And the best way to deal, at the moment, was to ignore it.

The faint light filtering in from above, already useless to see by, dimmed sharply. Quirrel took a few quick steps back, squinting upwards; The last thing he needed was for a chunk of void to fall on his head, but the fast-approaching shadow was… Strange. It looked nothing like a blob of void at all, more like a parachute, all billowing fabric and pronged horns and… And… _It was the Hollow Knight._

Quirrel did not want to take the Hollow Knight to the head, either, and he certainly wasn’t out of the impact zone; Stumbling out of the way with an indignant noise of alarm.

They landed hard, shaking the room.

They stood, as regal and noble as the statue in the city to the point where the impractically obscene amount of ruffles and lace they wore came across as almost comical.

They surveyed the room, stepped forwards with utmost grace, and slipped instantly.

They landed hard on their back, buried within their own ridiculous outfit, and as they fell something slippery and nasty shot from under their foot and smacked Quirrel in the chest, where it oozed down to land at his feet.

It reminded him of Ghost’s attempt at soup.

Except instead of the unidentifiable corpse of some unfortunate insect, it was his own arm.

Flecks of shell stuck to him where it shed liquid. Quirrel couldn’t help but gasp sharply, hands moving of their own volition to scrape the revolting shard-filled goo off of himself, taking hurried steps away from where it landed at his feet.

His arm. His _own_ arm! An arm, that was his, but had been detached. _His arm._

Quirrel had lost appendages before. It was part of the life of a wanderer to expect injury and so long as they lived to tell the tale, a bug’s limb would always grow back segment by segment as they shed their shell.

_But he still had both of his arms. _This... This was detritus from the deadly fall, all beaten up and oozing and- _And- _

And dying? Dying and coming back multiple times in one day? That was not something he knew how to deal with. How many times had it happened before? How many survivable injuries had he taken that were secretly deadly?

Wyrm forbid, how many times had he thrown himself into a dangerous place or situation, unaware he would be trapped in a cycle of resurrection and pain for the rest of his _existence_ if he made so much as a single slip?

He had leaned precariously over pits of acid, jumped over holes lined with spikes, rubbed shoulders with creatures and bugs that would kill for an infinite source of meat.

He had swum dangerous waters, set off traps just to see what they’d do, asked questions he shouldn’t.

Quirrel’s skin crawled under his shell. He felt sick, cold and tight. He had come so unknowingly close to plunging himself into hell so _many_ times.

He wished he’d known from the start, although deep down he knew that wouldn’t have changed a thing, he would have still taken those risks, gleefully so, perhaps even going further if he were safe in the knowledge that he’d just get back up again.

Maybe she hadn’t designed to tell him, or he had allowed himself to forget, for that reason.

He just had to come to terms with the knowledge. It was a gift! A terrifying gift. One a mortal bug such as himself should never have nor deserve. His mind swam with the implications of it all, full of visions of danger and death, until The Hollow Knight broke him from his thoughts.

They’d successfully disentangled themselves from their cloak and had moved to kneel mere inches from his face, bring their empty eyes level with his own.

… And they were poking him.

Incessantly.

Quirrel blinked. “… Can I help you?”

The Hollow Knight tilted their head curiously, and poked him again.

“Oh. I see.” He sighed, “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

He had been lying quite a lot over the past few days, so why stop?

“Hornet- _Ah_\- The Queen said you carry my things.” He said quickly, changing tracks. Their hand still hung in front of him, ready for poking, but at those words they withdrew it slowly into the folds of their enormous cloak and began to dig around. Quirrel could hear all kinds of things clattering about inside.

How deep were their pockets?

Eventually, they pulled out his bag; Dwarfed by their enormous hand, and held it out gently, clasped between two fingers.

Quirrel took it from them gratefully. “Thank you.” Normally, he travelled light; But the bag weighed _heavily_ and upon opening it up, it was clear why.

The Hollow Knight had packed enough snacks to provision an _army_, and beyond that, they had shoved in bandages, a sewing kit, and goodness knew what else, for even the half-eaten ooma core and the raw, stolen vengefly had been wrapped in cloth and twine to keep them away from everything else.

The empty waterskin had been filled almost to bursting, and as Quirrel took a few greedy gulps, more movement from the Hollow Knight caught his eye as they withdrew something _else_ from the lining of their cloak.

His _bandanna_.

So, they _had_ taken it. It must have been dropped in the confusion of… Well, everything that had happened, or perhaps they had grabbed it on their way out, however they’d gone about obtaining the thing didn’t matter, because they had taken the time to _clean and fix it_.

The hole that had been so viciously stabbed through it by Hornet during her little murder spree had been sewn unevenly with a length of red thread, while the blood and dirt had been washed out.

As he took it from their fingers and tied it back around his head, finding it came to rest just behind his set of new horns, something he still really didn’t know how to feel about, Quirrel found it was still damp.

“Did you do this yourself?” He asked, watching their mask intently.

As expected, they gave nothing except a small incline of the head in response.

As unhappy as he was, he couldn’t be mad at the Hollow Knight, it seemed. “Well, it’s very nice, thank you.”

In Deepnest, it was prudent to keep your wits about you, so he unslung his spear from where it had been bound to his pack and cautioned the Hollow Knight to keep their nail firmly in their grasp.

It took a lot of poking around to even leave the cave. Deepnest was nothing but a network of tunnels and holes, so old and lived in that the rock was almost sponge-like on a massive scale, made up of chambers upon chambers for miles, with solid walls few and far between and almost guaranteed to hide passageways behind.

That was good, because the Hollow Knight had to essentially carve their way through in order to fit.

As they walked, the scent of the Fungal Wastes faded into nothing, replaced by some acrid funk.

“I think… We’re moving away from the main paths.” Quirrel murmured. “At least there isn’t enough room back here for anything truly dangerous to find us, I’d hate to fight in such cramped quarters.” He turned back towards the Hollow Knight, “I’m sure we’ll- _Oh_.”

They were hunched over in the tiny tunnel, knees on the ground and supporting themselves on what appeared to be their _only_ arm, nail still clamped in their fingers uncomfortably, forcing them to carry their weight on their knuckles.

As they shuffled forwards, their elbow trembled.

Oh. _Damn._

What a fool he was! He’d been doing so well putting everything out of his mind, he’d forgotten they were even there. And after they’d been so kind to him, too!

Mentally kicking himself, Quirrel manoeuvred under the Hollow Knight’s empty shoulder. “I’m sorry, my friend, I should have noticed,” Ignoring things would get him nowhere, after all. “Lean on me, we’ll walk until we find somewhere large enough for you to sit.”

As they rested their weight upon him, Quirrel discovered them to be far lighter than something so large had any right to be; As if all along they were simply _physically_ hollow, instead of mentally as the King so proudly bragged.

The shell under the fabric felt soft, pockmarked and pitted, a great scoop inwards where their arm should have attached.

“There we go.” He said, more to himself than the Hollow Knight. “We’re fine.”

\---

Ghost hadn’t been able to communicate with the Hollow Knight.

They wanted to. They had tried when their sibling first appeared to arrest them, hours ago; But their mind was closed to them, scarred by the searing light of the Radiance.

That had been broken when Hollow had made contact of their own volition, poking and prodding with a curiosity they did not expect from the larger vessel.

Then again, there was a reason for that.

They had felt Quirrel go rigid as they tripped upon the severed arm, gasp sharply, a cold creeping down his shell as he tried to shed it off.

It wasn’t like him, he was brave.

Then again, he had been shaken pretty badly.

And there was no doubt their sibling had noticed too.

Incidentally, they were still _awful_ and _bad_. Ghost knew they had to make things right as soon as possible.

… The question was, how? Once they were back in their own shell, they hoped he would put up with them long enough to fix it all. They already had a decent mental list of what Quirrel liked, they thought. Exploration, learning, telling and hearing stories, travelling and discovery… They could work with that; They could figure something out.

Yes, it was all coming together.

Until then, they would have to do smaller things for him. Shower him with little gifts, good dreams, nice food, ask questions, that sort of thing.

When the Hollow Knight laid their shoulder over Quirrel, almost smothering him in their cloak in the process, the heavy, prolonged contact broke the barriers choking their thoughts and understanding flowed between them. The void always recognised its own.

The Knight communicated with Ghost, their thoughts thick and sticky with misuse. _They were worried for the Little Teacher_, they thought, _and they needed to rest. They were still weak, and the activities of the day had exhausted them._

_The Hollow Knight wanted them to ask to stop. It was kind of the Little Teacher to offer support to move but they would rather lie on the floor._

Ghost pushed back that they were not to speak, and that they had ruined Quirrel’s entire existence mere minutes ago and he didn’t want to hear from them possibly ever again.

The Hollow Knight huffed at that, responding not with thoughts but with the pure feeling of their arm getting closer and closer to collapsing.

_“K- Kirral?”_ Ghost cringed in embarrassment as they butchered their friend’s name mere seconds after opening his mouth. The moment they started to speak; he had gone rigid. They couldn’t talk right. They _would_ never be able to talk right, constructing new sentences, rather than repeating back what they had heard, it was nigh-impossible for them. _“S- Sorry. H- Hoh- Hol-”_ They hissed sharply with annoyance, and tried again. _“Kni-ht sssay they wan’ sht-stop h- here”_

They cringed. Their words weren’t clear. Their meaning was obscured. They could hardly pronounce anything and their sentence structure was up in the air.

They just needed to get something right! One thing right!

After he didn’t respond for a second, they gathered what skills they had, tried to remember what they had been taught mere hours before, words they had managed to repeat back _perfectly_ at the time, and squeezed in a desperate _“…P- Pleash?”_

Pleash. _Pleash?_

They couldn’t even manage a _please?_ _After being coached on how to say it?_

_Why?_

No, no, no, no.

No, they decided, they hated words now.

They were… _Bad_, and _clumsy_, and _stupid_, and _annoying_!

They just liked making noises! And sounds! Words were fun at first, new noises and new combinations of noises were always good, but the expectations of communication that came with them?

_Oh, they hated that. _

They were not a verbal creature! They were not designed to be, they were not intended to be, and until they needed to be, they had no real interest in it.

They were still trying! Goodness knew, they were still trying, for their friends, for themselves, for whatever it meant, to communicate on the terms of others; But it wasn't fun anymore.

Yes, sure, so when given the apparatus they could poorly mimic spoken words, great.

But they would never be able to do it by themselves.

Their body, their _real_ body, had no mouth, and they had no idea how to change that, and the very idea of doing such a thing… It terrified them.

They just wanted to be themselves again. No more changes.

Quirrel's presence wasn't merely a crutch, he was the only thing making it work.

They had tried it, they had given it a good go, they had even been a little excited!

And while they loved making noise, the novelty of speech had long worn off once it became _expected_; Replaced with a furious frustration borne of stuttering and slurring, misunderstanding and misinterpreting and demands for clarity.

They supposed they needed a solution for _that_, too.

“I- Yes, of course.” Quirrel said, in response to their pleading, rushing to help The Hollow Knight to the ground, “If you need something like this, you don’t have to pass messages along, you could just… Do it.”

The Hollow Knight pressed to Ghost that they were not exactly _used_ to asking much of anything, and it was hard.

They decided not to pass that on.

He sat cross-legged next to their head and laid a hand on one large horn. “I suppose asking you to be quiet was a bit of a stretch, Ghost.”

They felt themselves flush in shame, ducking their head with a quiet _“Hhh,”_ Too exhausted with articulation to even try.

“No, I didn’t mean it like _that_.” Quirrel rubbed at his face, feeling the horns- _Horns!_ They had managed to sprout during their tantrum. “I meant we’re not in a good situation to avoid communicating. It was foolish of me to say it, and don’t feel bad for not managing it… I feel better knowing I’m not dragging your… _Sibling_? Along exhausted.”

That was fair, they supposed.

Hollow nudged gently into their mind to agree.

Quirrel seemed content to sit in silence, while one hand rubbed the Hollow Knight’s horn absently, the other fidgeted uncomfortably, tying and untying the bow holding his hat on.

They wished they knew how to make him feel better, they needed to do something. They needed a way to apologize without pesky _words_.

“… Hollow Knight?” Quirrel asked quietly, “Where did you get all this?” He rattled his bag to emphasise, “Did you have it all on your person already?”

The Hollow Knight shook their head, the movement feeling massive as they swung around horns larger than Quirrel’s body with ease. As they moved, their hand snaked into their cloak to produce a Geo pouch, which they shook gently, pushing images of storefronts and salesbugs into Ghost’s mind.

“You went _shopping_?” Quirrel asked incredulously, “_Really_?”

They nodded.

“… Well… Thank you. I can’t say it was a good time for you to go, but I appreciate it, it was very thoughtful.”

Externally, the Hollow Knight hardly moved as they acknowledged the complement.

Internally, they were basking in it with such joy that Ghost wished they could join in.

“… Follow up question,” he said, snatching up their attention once more. “How did you know we were down here?”

Once again, they reached into their cloak; This time producing a delicate scrap of silken parchment, passing it over for Quirrel to read.

Scribbled in a fast yet flowing hand, the parchment read;

_‘Following the Archivist and Ghost heading towards Deepnest shaft seek us out if we do not return promptly’_

It was signed, not with a name, but with a scribbled picture of Hornet’s face.

“… She was following us. Oh, of _course_. _Of course she was._”

The Hollow Knight nodded again, reaching out to grasp and reclaim the silk parchment.

Quirrel did not release it. Instead, he made a noise like a dying Gruzfly and flopped forwards over their horn until his mask almost touched the floor, crumpling the message as he bought his hands to his face. “No… No, _no_, do you know what this _means_?” He moaned, that creeping feeling of dread making its way back, but this time burning flushed and hot behind his mask in a way they did not like at all.

Hornet had been following them? Ghost didn’t see the problem, Hornet had _always_ been following them, that was what Hornet did.

Still, Ghost did not know what it meant. _“Whn??”_

“It means she _saw_ **_everything_**!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hornet did not like seeing a grown bug cry."  
"She went and sat in another room."
> 
> Also Quirrel with horns what damage will he inflict  
None becuase they're tiny and nubby
> 
> ALSO, I'm fairly sure there's fanart of this fic? I've had comments to that effect in the past, but if there is, I haven't seen it!  
Please, if you've drawn anything, let me know! I'd really love to take a look!!
> 
> Don't forget to comment, it fuels me.
> 
> EDIT 24/07/2020:  
Clarified the amount of arms Quirrel currently possesses


	18. The Mortified and The Miner

There had been so much running, and falling, and cursing, and stumbling through the dark kinds of places that would make the most seasoned warrior scream and run away that for Lemm, the cave-in was actually a bit of a relief.

Yes, he was trapped, half-blind, in an unknown part of Hallownest, with an itch in his mind telling him to turn around and head back, but nothing could pursue him though a pile of rock!

… He hoped.

The world around him rattled and hissed in a way entirely unfamiliar, which made listening for pursuit a fruitless endeavour at _best_.

Still, Lemm took a moment to stop and listen _anyway_, lest he accidentally cursed himself with such an errant, hopeful thought.

… Nope. Nothing. No groans, no gurgling, just… Scraping and rustling.

_Safe_ scraping and rustling, he believed.

Well! No point standing around; He needed rest if he was going to find his way out, and he wasn’t going to waste the only safe spot he’d come across to do it.

He lowered himself down where he stood, using the hard rocks of the cave wall as handholds to get into a comfortable position, owing to his joints not _quite_ being what they used to be, on account of the void, and all.

Perfect. He would just stay there for a few moments and _then-_

Somewhere up above, someone cleared their throat.

“Um… Hello? E- Excuse me…?”

Once again, if Lemm ever designed to tell the tale back, he would leave out the bit where he shrieked like a frightened grub.

\---

It took a couple of minutes for Quirrel to recover from the realization that Hornet had witnessed… Well… All that.

Ghost still didn’t really see the big deal, Hornet had probably seen for worse from them; She had once borne witness to them getting pummelled by a Mosscreep, but they _hated_ how it was making the two of them feel; Some horrible, twisty, squishy, face-burning emotion they hadn’t experienced before.

Quirrel was practically _writhing_ under the feeling. “Okay, we’re changing subject _right now_. Ghost, it’s been fun teaching you to speak, but all this talking over each other we’ve been doing is unsustainable, and frankly, I am sick of it.” They supposed that was fair. “Not to mention, it’s a pain to have a conversation when we’re both using the same voice.” Ghost supposed they also made him sound like a thick-mouthed fool to anyone who wasn’t in the know.

Ghost _also_ supposed he probably thought that too, and just wasn’t saying so in an effort to spare their feelings.

“So, I-”

_“-S -Sssorry-”_

“-_That is exactly what I was referring to, Ghost_.” They cringed as Quirrel continued through tightly gritted mouthparts. “Let me finish.”

_“-Sss-”_ They started again, then stopped. _“-Ah- Mmm.”_

“Now, _as I was saying_, I think I have a solution that will benefit us both.” He said. “I’m going to teach you some sign, it should at least help you communicate more effectively.”

“-_Honestly_,” Quirrel added in a mutter, “I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this in the first place.”

Ghost thought themselves very much through with the whole _‘active communication’_ thing bugs so seemed to adore, but it would be a lie to say their interest wasn’t piqued. 

The Hollow Knight’s was as well, their head perked, their attention focusing in so suddenly on the two of them that it made Ghost jump.

_They_, at least, were more than just ‘interested’.

“Curb your enthusiasm; We haven’t even started yet. Hollow Knight, are you okay to rest for a little while longer?”

They nodded, shifting position to sit as straight as they could, up until their horns met the ceiling; All the better to watch.

Quirrel stretched his arms and hands until the joints clicked. “Be glad I used to make a hobby out of language learning,” He said. “We’ll start with the alphabet.”

\---

It turned out the Hollow Knight had a reason for their interest.

As Quirrel finished up running them through the basics and helped himself to a small paper bag of salty, crunchy things he’d fished out of his larger, not-paper bag, thanking the large vessel all the while for buying them, the Hollow Knight nudged at the corner of their awareness until Ghost found themselves forced to reach out to see what they wanted, lest they were mentally poked for all eternity.

_They had been taught sign as a young thing, _the Hollow Knight pushed, _merely_ _as a utility, like teaching a domestic Tiktik to indicate a problem or carry a message, but they could teach it to Ghost far faster than the Little Teacher could ever hope._

_… And then Ghost could do that apology they had been loudly and insistently thinking about for the past half hour. _

Ghost wanted the Hollow Knight to stop listening in on their private thoughts.

_The Hollow Knight thought Ghost needed to stop broadcasting their private thoughts, then. _

Ghost couldn’t argue with that.

And, also, they did want to learn. And they wanted to learn _fast_.

Hollow already had it all ready; A great mass of muscle memory and language, _extremely simplified_, ready to pass from one mind to another.

It would tire them significantly, they had done such things before with spells and dreams and memory, but it was worth it.

They mentally steeled themselves for a moment, and took the memory mass.

It was larger, more complex, and more involved than anything else they had absorbed before, and it mentally staggered them as the information hit; Quirrel, _who really shouldn’t have felt any effect_, wobbling in the midst of his snack consumption as the exhaustion hit.

They would need to wait for it to sink in and mesh with what they already had before they could make any use out of it, and they could not escape the need for practise, but it was a leg-up they most desperately needed.

And… At least they already _had_ hands. No getting to grips with new equipment.

The Hollow Knight was satisfied with that. _They were also willing to coach Ghost on proper apology etiquette, but that was a ‘later’ thing._ As it was, they were feeling a little better after lying flat on their front for a while, and thought themselves able to keep going until they reached somewhere with higher ceilings. There, they could make real progress; Their mind conjuring up the image of the Hollow Knight striding along with Quirrel slung under their arm.

_Why,_ Ghost nudged their mind questioningly_, did they want to carry him about?_

Their larger sibling pushed back that normal bugs walked _far too slowly_, and while Hornet had banned them from carrying anyone around, claiming that The Hollow Knight would damage their own health; The Little Teacher didn’t know that, and they were going to take that opportunity to travel at a good pace for once.

Also, they just liked doing it. It was like a hug that achieved something.

… Hornet banned it for their _health_?

Ghost’s mind filled with images of their sibling, labouring under the Radiance, bleeding pus and gore as their body burned under its frenzy.

This was not a thought they allowed to escape, not this time, not with their sibling close enough to receive it.

How… Was their health?

The Hollow Knight paused, turning ever-so-slightly to look at them, mind closing like a clamshell for a moment, before reopening gently.

_Good. _

_They were good._

They would never truly be the same, but they had recovered their strength and their sanity, and their body no longer hurt as it had for so long; They were happy with that.

It took time, they admitted, their thoughts fluttering around the edges. They were not right when they stepped out of the Black Egg, but nor was any bug released from the Infection that day; And for the first time in their life, The Hollow Knight had been but one in the masses.

Hornet had found them fast and cared deeply for them. She had taken them to many kinds of doctors, both for their body and their mind, until they felt well again.

Their strength did not matter anymore, either. Their position as Ogrim’s apprentice was not one of a warrior, but a helper. They had chosen to dress themselves in ruffles under his advice, to become less threatening to the people as their new role demanded.

He had even taken the time to introduce them to the parts of life they had _missed_, he had given them _hugging lessons_! They knew how to hug already, of course, they were sure Ghost knew, but he had been so _genuine_ about it, and they had no idea there were so many techniques!

They had mastered them _all_; The Shoulder Squeeze, The Back-Pat, everything.

The Hollow Knight liked being able to dress themselves. They liked not having to fight.

Under the Pale King they had no choice… _His influence did not allow…_

Their thoughts cut off harshly, a sizzling static that stole their mind and burned Ghost’s thoughts for a moment before The Hollow Knight forced it away with a hard burst of will.

They pushed a quick apology towards Ghost; Letting them know they were to try not to think of His wishes anymore, that he still held too much sway over their mind after so long, but sometimes they still strayed.

Ghost worried, then, how the Hollow Knight would deal with being in the castle again.

They would be fine, their sibling assured, their old home contained memories beyond their father. Good ones, sometimes, but mostly things not worth remembering; Despite having no mind of their own at the time, their life there was painfully boring, they could focus on the mission at hand.

That was… Good. That was good.

When the snacks came to their end, Quirrel crumpled and discarded the empty paper, reaching automatically for the next thing.

He pulled the spear into his lap, produced a rag, and began to clean it.

The task was repetitive, and a little monotonous, and Ghost had mostly tuned it out to focus on other things until Quirrel turned the spearhead to inspect the metal, caught a glimpse of himself, and stopped.

“Huh.” He reached up to touch the lumps on his head, his brand new ‘horns’, counting quietly as he followed where they outlined the top half of his mask in a semicircle, from the top down to about halfway around, sticking out from under his hat like blunt little claws.

“… Six. Why _six_?”

Quirrel's new horns weren't really horns at _all_, in Ghost's opinion.

They were nothing more than a set of tiny, fat lumps around his mask, with hardly any curve to them at all; Barely half a finger's length long and nowhere near as wide as their own, _far more impressive_, set.

Of course, they felt bad about, well, _growing_ them, especially considering the circumstances, but at least he didn't seem too upset this time!

… Admittedly, they could have at least done a better job. If it had been intentional, they would have at least made them longer, _then_ they would be horns.

As they were, calling them horns was, essentially, an insult to _actual_ horns. They needed a different name, like… _Nubbins_, or maybe… _Lumpies-_

_-Aaaaand the Hollow Knight was calling them a snob. _

That wasn’t true! They weren’t a snob!

Ghost wondered if the Hollow Knight had any better suggestions, but instead of a response, their sibling sent them a muddy old memory of a rich, prissy old bug waiting for an audience with the Pale King, fussing up a storm as a servant polished and dressed her magnificent- _And fake_\- Set of horns.

_Well, that wasn’t a fair comparison at all! _

As the Hollow Knight ground back onto their hands and knees, Quirrel put his things away and shifted with them to support their shoulder once more.

\---

Lemm leapt to his feet as the other bug, whoever they were, dropped from somewhere above with a clatter of stone.

_He couldn’t see them._

Even before all this, he was hopeless in the dark. Most Hallownest bugs could see by the dimmest light, but as a surfacer, that ability was not in his blood.

There was, maybe, a slight glimmer of Lumafly light where he thought them to be, but he couldn’t be sure; What remained of his low-light vision rendering the world as blocks of black and grey swimming in a static fuzz.

“Are you o-okay?” The other bug sounded worried, and their voice came from close, so close, the scratching at the back of his head demanded he defend himself with claw and horn. “You look…”

“Like _death_.” Lemm grumbled, stepping back from the source of the voice. “_Yes_, I know.”

“O-Oh! No, I- I wasn’t going to say _that_, you, um…” The voice coughed, “You l-look like, um…”

“-Like I’ve died.” He filled in.

“No! I- I didn’t mean- I’m- I just didn’t expect to meet a-anyone down here-” There was a scrape of metal against glass and the faint Lumafly light bloomed as some kind of shield was pulled out of the way, making Lemm blink and stifle a hiss as the soft light stung his eyes. “Let’s try again; It’s nice to m-meet you! What’s your name?”

The bug behind the light was small; Barely half his height, wearing a modified miner’s helmet, the classic Lumafly lantern crudely rigged with bent metal sheeting to allow the light to be stifled at a moment’s notice, her pickaxe so wickedly sharp it looked fresh off the forge.

The modified lantern appeared to be held together with spun silk, something the bug before him would not be able to produce herself.

He had seen bugs like this in travellers’ journals and pre-infection writings; They were diggers and miners, mostly, and many had fallen to madness and infection within the nearby crystal mountains.

He was always a little perturbed by the Old Kingdom’s obsession with funnelling the ‘right’ kinds of bugs into certain professions.

It wasn’t a hard and fast law by any means, but… Well, it rubbed him the wrong way, a little.

Yet, surely, it wouldn’t hurt to introduce himself to the first friendly face he’d seen since arriving within these void-cursed caverns?

“Lemm.” He said, clumsily avoiding her attempts to shake his hand. “And you?”

“Myla.” She said cheerfully, “It’s very n-nice to meet you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Looks up from TV Tropes* Oh you're still here  
I finally got Hollow Knight on laptop due to my 'birthday', whatever that is, and have dutifully spent the last week working my way through the game bit-by-bit as the developers intended.  
... Okay that's a lie I installed the easymode mod don't @ me  
Anyway, back on chapter 12 I got a comment asking why Ghost didn't mourn Myla as they did Cloth and Tiso  
I couldn't respond becuase, well, that would be spoilers  
Speaking of comments thank you for all the kind ones! They keep me writing :Dc!


	19. Use Your Words

Quirrel seemed content to walk in silence.

That was nice! That was nice. For him. That was nice for him.

Ghost, on the other hand, was getting increasingly wound up with every second.

They couldn’t stand it. They couldn’t stand it! They still felt awful, the guilt hadn’t abated and they were just sitting there, _stewing_, pretending nothing was wrong!

They had withdrawn as much as they could, but they still ached, they had made good as much they could, but they still felt hideous. They still felt hideous! And awful! And _evil_.

They were winding up more and more, worrying harder and harder still, stiffening even as they tried to stay good and relaxed.

There was no doubt he’d noticed. They felt like their insides were trying to escape. Like their knees were going to lock.

_They couldn’t wait any longer. _

Forget practise. Forget _planning_. If they didn’t apologize _now_, all the bad feelings would coalesce and catalyse and then Quirrel would hate them _forever_.

They had to do it. Any second now. Any second-

The Hollow Knight elbowed into their mind. Their feelings were palpable, of course they were, they were still laid across Quirrel’s shoulders and the close contact between the two of them made it that much easier to ‘_chat’_.

Their sibling considered themself able to help _further_. In their time before the fall, they had witnessed ample apologies. The White Lady enjoyed having them accompany her to plays as a guard, where they got to stand and watch as bugs ran through the motions of tragedy and apology. Other times, bugs would fling themselves at the feet of the Pale King if they so much as made a small mistake, begging his forgiveness, and while they thought that was silly, they could easily coach Ghost into saying the right things.

_It seemed… Doable, _Ghost thought. _But they couldn’t guarantee they would stay on script. _

The Hollow Knight shifted their weight slightly, and Ghost swallowed, fingers curling.

_“I’m sorry.” _They signed. 

“I know you are, Ghost.” Quirrel replied blankly, as he had already. “I think we’re well past that now.”

_“No. No, I was wrong. Wrong for not telling you about hurt guard. Didn’t consider the- The-”_ They were still too upset, the knowledge too fresh and unused, struggling to form the words correctly. _“_Consequences_. For you. It was bad of me. Short sighted. Didn’t think.”_

As they continued, they managed to get into the swing of the words a bit. _“I’m sorry, for that.” _

They hoped he understood, _they were so sorry_, they didn’t know how to say it.

_“And I got you hurt. Got scared. Tried to fight Hornet and Ogrim. Shouldn’t have. Should have listened. Just… So scared.” _Not enough. They had to keep going, they had to show they _understood_ how they’d gone wrong; The Hollow Knight prompting them from the sidelines. _“When you… Yelled… I felt so upset. Never felt anything before. Feeling things now. Didn’t know how to deal. Let it eat me. And didn’t notice… Fall. And… Ow.” _Their hands shook, they could feel their own regret on their palms, and it dragged their clumsy words; Already loaded with more meaning than they could ever hope to carry, making them feel guilty and sad.

Quirrel loosened as he watched, almost stumbling as he directed all his attention towards his own dancing hands. “… I accept your apology.” He said, finally. “Although, I can’t say I _forgive_ you. I can’t imagine how it would feel… To feel nothing and then everything. You handled it poorly, but… I don’t think I would have done any better.” He shifted his weight as much as he could, still half carrying the Hollow Knight as he was. “Hurting a guard was stupid. I’m glad you recognize that, but the consequence for me matters less than the consequence for _the guard_, do you understand? That was another bug you injured.”

He made a good point, but to be fair, Ghost had never really thought of the guards as _bugs_ before. _“… Yes. Didn’t think about it. Guards danger before. Scary.” _

“Exactly. That’s why I can’t even get that upset about it.” Quirrel ran a hand under his hat, pushing it back over his neck, the touch over his antennae feeling magnified. “You’ve never lived in a civilised Hallownest before. The husk guards were _extremely_ dangerous to be around, so why wouldn’t you attack one? And… Feeling things for the first time? You’re like a hatchling. It takes years for them to learn how to deal with their emotions, you’ve only had months, I can’t fault you much there either. Although I need to ask, which part _actually_ got you so upset?”

They fought down a knot in their throat. They weren’t going to cry again. _“I killed you.” _

“… Ah.”

_“Then… Upset. Yelling. Hurting more. You told me I was bad, you were right, more upset. Thought…”_

“- That I hated you? Yes, I… _Felt_ that. Well, I don’t hate you. If I did, I can assure you we wouldn’t be taking any breaks; It would be a dead rush to the White Palace, and then straight out of Hallownest.” He sighed, “I’m not even sure if I want to do _that_ anymore, either.”

_“Still friends?”_

Quirrel nodded, and Ghost almost felt themselves inflate with joy. “Yes, I think we are... But maybe on one condition.”

Ah, there was always something, but they didn’t care. Still friends! _“Yes?”_

“_Be careful with your actions._ And the void, too, I think you half burnt my face with your crying. I don’t mind you taking the initiative, but you can’t just go on the attack whenever you feel like it.” He cleared his throat, “And if you have to… If you really, _really_ have to… Warn me first.”

They nodded, they could do that. They didn’t have access to the void at all when they came to Hallownest, and they’d done fine. The yawning pit of the stuff inside of them had been drained dry by their tantrum, they would be fine.

And now, nothing was trying to kill them anyway.

Well, they were in Deepnest, so something somewhere was absolutely _willing_ to kill them, if it had the chance, but Quirrel was more than skilled with a weapon.

The Hollow Knight thought they did a good job. When they did good, Ogrim would often reach up and give them a firm pat wherever he could reach. Usually the shoulder, but sometimes between the horns, if they were sitting.

They couldn’t pat _Ghost_, but…

The Hollow Knight reached over and slowly palmed Quirrel’s face, making him laugh. “Are you doing okay back there?”

_They were. _

And Ghost was doing okay too.

\---

“- How in Hallownest did we end up _inside_ the tramline?” Quirrel asked in abject confusion, staring at the ornate, pale doors that were supposed to prevent all but the trams themselves from moving through their exclusive tunnels. “It’s supposed to be impossible to get in here! We tested it!”

_“D-E-E-P-N-E-S-T”_ Ghost broke the silence. Fingerspelling slowly, and slightly unnecessarily, as if he didn’t know where they were.

At least they had picked it up quickly.

“-_Yes_. Right. Of course. Deepnest. This place is a labyrinth.” He paused. “… I suppose this puts us even deeper than I suspected… It’s strange, this is all supposed to be flooded.” It was considered a miracle that anyone had survived the flooding of Deepnest at all, but now they were inside, it all became a little easier to understand.

Of course, there was still void. It was inescapable; The stuff welled through cracks in the rock, spewing over the ground in violent little puddles that dotted the uneven floor like rockpools.

It even poured from the ceiling. Not in waterfalls, no, but in straight pillars of black goo that waved in the air, shedding floating droplets and, on closer inspection, seemingly flowing upwards.

Quirrel pressed his head against the seal between the two great doors, listening. He could hear the unsettling rustles and clicks of the Deepnest natives on the other side, so close it almost felt as if they were in the room with him. “It sounds like there’s little flooding on the other side, either. If these doors lead to Deepnest proper, then we should be able to access the castle station if we just walk along to the next stop.” How they were going to get _into_ the next stop was another matter entirely, a metaphorical bridge they would have to cross when they came to it.

Quirrel sighed. “It’s a shame we can’t get through here. I don’t want to risk poking about too much, but there is a hot spring just a through these doors, and I would _love_ to use it right now.”

Even worse, the uncomfortable, ever-present dirt and ache wasn’t the only thing bothering him anymore.

He had been ignoring it as best he could, but as they walked his stomach had been complaining bitterly; Gurgling and clenching as if he were half-starved.

A ridiculous notion, considering he’d _just_ eaten, but it was not only beginning to hurt, it was making him terribly lightheaded, and the last thing Quirrel needed was to faint within the Den of Beasts; No matter how safe the tramways were supposed to be.

“… Well, I think it’s time for a break.” He plopped himself down, then and there; Using the King’s grand doors as nothing more than a backrest.

Honestly, it had probably been longer than he thought. Perhaps it had been hours since they had fallen into the deep? It was hard to tell; All the tunnels had blurred into themselves after a while; Chances are, it had been long enough for such desperate hunger to be normal.

And it would be a lie to say the day’s events had _not_ been hungry work, after all.

Quirrel dug through his bag, through the piles of snacks the Hollow Knight had procured, trying to find something a little more substantial than travel rations.

It was ridiculous. He used to go days without eating and hardly feel a thing, yet a few hours into a short trek and he suddenly felt half starved, as if he were dying.

The raw vengefly brushed his fingers from where it sat wrapped at the bottom of his bag.

Some bugs would call him picky, but he didn’t really _like_ raw vengefly. It was fatty and gross and far too chewy, but he couldn’t exactly afford to be picky now, could he?

Quirrel pulled at the wax paper surrounding the dead bug and- _And was hit by a wave of smell. _

“Ugh!” Quirrel shoved the vengefly back to the bottom of his pack. It was rotting. Of course it was rotting! It had been days!

And, for some reason, he had put it back in his bag. Good lord, he really _was_ hungry.

Giving up, Quirrel grabbed the first bag of snacks he saw and tore it open. It was waxpaper, just like the vengefly’s wrappings, and chances are, the Hollow Knight had got them in the same place.

He stuffed a whole handful into his mouth, straightened up from where he’d been crouching over his bag like a bug possessed (_hah_), to come eye-to-eye with a cross-legged Hollow Knight.

“… Yes?”

They inclined their head mechanically, almost looking down in degrees like a clockwork toy to stare at the bag of food, and then they slowly looked back up to meet Quirrel’s gaze once more.

They did this three, four times.

“Do you want to know how they are?” They tilted their head at that, a slight shake indicating that he was off. “Hm, okay, do you want my opinion?”

They tilted their head slightly differently. _Closer, then._

“… You just want my thoughts on your _choice_?” They nodded.

Quirrel wasn’t sure how that was different to his opinion, but the distinction seemed to matter to them, so he decided not to comment on it.

“Ah, well, I think you made a very _good_ choice!” He said, stuffing another handful into his jaws.

The Hollow Knight tilted their head again, this time different still. Maybe he was reading too far into the minuity of their already subdued body language, but it felt like a subtle ‘_why?’_

Well, he could easily answer that.

Quirrel held out a handful of food. “This is some kind of trail mix, yes?” He separated it out with his fingers. “See, it’s mostly nuts and dried berries.”

“The nuts,” He started, popping one into his mouth, “Are- _Mm_\- Full of protein. They’re good for filling up your belly and keeping your muscles going long-term, they’ll keep you walking.”

“The berries, on the _other hand_,” He said, snickering at his own joke as he poured them, _well_, into his other hand. “They’re full of sugar. They’ll give you a quick burst of energy _right now_, as you need it; They’ll get you up and going again. While it’s certainly not a full meal, it’s perfect for a trip like this, and delicious to boot; So, yes! I think you made a good choice.”

This seemed to please them _greatly_. From where they had been bending to watch his hands, they shot back upright, head tipping back as they almost wiggled on the spot in joy, normally mechanical movements turning fluid for a moment as their one hand slapped against their side in an approximation of a clap

Their tangible joy only lasted for a moment, the Hollow Knight coming back to a stock-still rest as if they had never moved at all, still wobbling slightly from the burst of excitement, ducking their head almost in embarrassment as Quirrel chuckled.

It seemed they had put a lot of effort into stocking up and procuring food.

Obviously, most of it was on account of Quirrel hosting their sibling; But on top of that, they clearly, genuinely _cared_.

In fact, he could see, in his mind’s eye: The Hollow Knight browsing through a market buried somewhere within Greenpath, going stall-to-stall and convincing the salesbugs to slowly and thoroughly talk them through every detail of their wares just to ensure they picked the _perfect_ products.

Especially the food. The Hollow Knight could not eat and did not understand _food_.

The mental image felt so real, _so_ _clear_, it felt more as if he were recalling a memory than idly daydreaming, and their gaze almost _spoke_; _Why eat that food? Why in that order? Does it ‘taste’? Why?_

… Strange.

Quirrel held out his handful of food. “Here. You bought it; You should have some.”

The Hollow Knight reached out and gently plucked a single nut from his palm. Pinched gently between their forefinger and thumb, it seemed tiny compared to them; More like dollhouse food than anything real.

They stared at it for a second, then gently, ever so gently, inserted it into their undamaged eye.

They sat still, and from inside their mask came a sound like a marble running down a track, tinny and oddly hollow, until the nut reappeared inside their other eye; Staring out from within the cracked porcelain like a pupil.

The Hollow Knight reached up, plucked it back out, and attempted to hand it back to Quirrel.

“_Uh_…” He wasn’t sure if he should clap or explain how eating worked. “... Keep it.”

Cocking their head, they reinserted the morsel though their eyehole once more; Their whole mask rattling comically as it rolled around and came to a rest somewhere near their chin.

Even after gulping down an entire portion of trail mix, Quirrel found himself _still hungry_; Greedily tearing open another bag, this time spilling a pile of crunchy little seeds into his palm.

It seemed the Hollow Knight had simply decided to buy a little bit of everything.

It was clear why Ogrim had chosen them as his apprentice, and why he seemed so _proud_; After all, a knight that couldn’t bring themselves to care was hardly a knight at all, and the Hollow Knight had gone above and beyond without even being asked, simply because they deemed it necessary; It was no wonder they were so popular.

After everything was said and done, Quirrel had felt hesitant to leave Hallownest.

It was a lot to take in at once, his past, his purpose, the trickles of memory. It was never anything concrete enough to give him any real attachment, but enough to make him feel the loss of it all the more _keenly_; He didn’t know where he’d been born, couldn’t say if he’d had any friends or family beyond the Teacher herself, yet he knew more about the kingdom than anyone reasonably _should_. 

After the kingdom had sprung back to life, he had taken a job translating texts for a relic seeker and squirreled himself away to think it all over; But even in isolation, word of the Hollow Knight had reached him.

A wonderful knight, the new Queen’s own sibling, wounded greatly in battle against the infection itself; Holding it back for hundreds of years until the killing blow was finally struck, yet, after all that, still working tirelessly through their injuries to better the kingdom any way they could.

The true story, Quirrel knew, wasn’t quite so glamourous, and significantly more tragic.

Bugs gossiping on the street conjured up noble images of grand battles, of heroic knights sacrificing themselves for the greater good, and shining weapons. But of course, no bug on the street knew about the Vessels, nor the sordid intent behind their creation.

He supposed it didn’t matter if they did. They saw the Hollow Knight as a hero and a grand figure, and they treated them accordingly, and that was probably all that mattered. 

At any rate, there was no doubt they deserved it.

Thinking of the Hollow Knight, they were looking at him oddly.

Maybe it was because, deep in thought as he was, he’d been staring at a rock for the past five minutes, or maybe it was because he’d already torn open his third bag.

Quirrel cocked his head back at them, the movement springing down his neck to pull at the already tender shell over his shoulders and back, making it ache anew.

Right, the pain. And it had been going away a little, too! "Ow, ow ow ow…" It didn't actually hurt that much anymore, he’d been careful with his movements and Ghost had been very well-behaved, but he was feeling dramatic. 

In fact, it hurt less now, which was good, considering there were no actual injuries; Just the residual bumps and scrapes of his many recent accidents, feeling less like actual pain and more like a deep discomfort, the kind of thing you’d _expect_ after a bout of stress, harsh treatment and supremely bad posture. 

That's what he got for sitting hunched over his food for so long. 

He reached back absentmindedly to rub at a particularly sore spot, a little behind and beneath the joint that connected his right arm to his body. He could feel the texture changing where it hurt; Going from pitted and slightly fuzzy, as all normal shell should be, to perfectly smooth.

Odd, but hardly noteworthy; Considering everything else. It was probably just one of the patches of muck he’d noted earlier, covering the actual afflicted spot. Dried void, or something.

His only saving grace on the matter was the small fact that he could not eat properly with one hand, and at that moment, he would rather fill his belly than spiral down some Tiktik hole of worry.

He gulped the last crumbs of his food. He was still peckish, but it wasn’t like the food was unlimited and he was not foolish enough to gorge himself in such an inhospitable place; Taking the edge off would be enough for now.

Quirrel stood with a groan, shell popping loudly as he stretched; Almost bending all the way backwards for a moment as he tried to make up for sitting so hunched.

That’s what he got for having bad posture.

The Hollow Knight had risen with him, and as Quirrel stepped away from the grand doors, they caught him by the shoulder. “Hm?” He stopped moving, peering up into their unreadable face. “Shall we rest for a little longer?”

They shook their head, and before Quirrel could do anything to stop them, they hooked their elbow underneath his armpits and hoisted him into the air.

“Wha- _Hey_! Hollow Knight! I can walk!” They didn’t listen, causing him to double down. “Come now, you could barely support your own weight earlier, and I am _fine_ now.” As the Hollow Knight continued to ignore him, walking with great strides, Quirrel threw his head back with a sigh. He supposed it was acceptable, if they really wanted to.

He could get out any time he wanted anyway, and it would save him avoiding the puddles.

_“Faster.”_ Ghost signed, one of many words he was fairly sure he hadn’t taught them; But it wasn’t the time to question what they did and didn’t know.

“That’s very kind of them, however, I am not a grub, and I can still walk.” Well, if the two of them could communicate… “Ghost, _please_ tell your sibling to put me down.”

_“Okay.”_ Their hands fell still, and as they took a deep breath through his mouth, Quirrel realized exactly what they were going to do seconds before they did it.

_“Hoooolllllooow Kniiiiht,”_ They drawled, a note of amusement colouring their tone, _“Kiirral saays-”_

“-_Ghost_.” Quirrel interrupted, unamused.

_“… S-orry.”_ They switched back to sign. _“Bad joke?”_

Faced with the one thing more dangerous than Ghost having another tantrum, them developing a sense of humour, Quirrel’s annoyance died where it stood.

“No… That was actually pretty funny.” He let his head hit The Hollow Knight’s forearm, the impact muffled by thick, comfortable fabric. Underneath his shell they practically vibrated with something approaching silent laughter.

His resolve cracked just a little. The Hollow Knight, _at least_, deserved some amusement.

_Oh, Wyrm,_ he thought,_ they were both just kids. _“Fine. You can carry me. Let’s go.”

Instead, they slowed.

The Hollow Knight had stopped, cocking their head with a slight rattle, as if they were thinking. Then, they adjusted their grip and lifted Quirrel until he was level with their horns.

_“Grab.”_ Ghost signed.

“Grab...? -Oh!” Well, that was a little more like it; While he’d rather walk, a shoulder ride from the Hollow Knight was nothing to be sniffed at. He’d be the envy of short bugs everywhere.

“Okay,” He said, trying not to sound too eager at the prospect of riding in style. “If you insist.”

Grabbing tight hold of their horns, Quirrel stepped onto their shoulder; Shifting slightly as he got his footing on the fabric of their cloak.

_“Yes?”_ Ghost asked, forcing him to let go and almost sending the two toppling for a moment. _“Good?”_

“…Yes. Yes, it’s… Good.” Quirrel cleared his throat, trying not to laugh as he pointed ahead, leaning forwards as if he were the captain of a ship, swinging from the mast. “Well; Onwards, my noble steed!”

… The Hollow Knight, his noble steed, did not move.

Quirrel coughed awkwardly, his attempt at breaking the tension that had formed seemingly falling flat. “… Ah, I’m sorry, I suppose that was a little rude, wasn’t i- _WHOA_!” His question was cut off as they broke into an abrupt _sprint_; Almost galloping down the tramway. 

Finally, they were getting somewhere!

\---

The Hollow Knight just liked holding people.

Even in their diminished state they were still strong. _Impossibly_ strong according to some; Born of the void and almost a god as they were, they had no muscles to weaken. Their exhaustion and weakness stemming from the wear and destruction of their body while they were sealed.

Either way, they thought it was nice to carry something that wasn’t a nail, something that required them to be careful and gentle.

This made them very popular with the grubs of Dirtmouth, who would amass wherever they went and, if given the chance, would climb them like a playground.

Hornet disapproved of that, but she could never stop them unless she _ordered_ them, something they knew she would never do, committed to allowing them their own choices. They only stopped picking up adult bugs _(In front of her, anyway,) _at her pleading; The fact that no one liked it hardly crossed their mind until she pointed it out.

The Little Teacher minded. They could tell, he was a little more vocal about it than the bugs they found at their sister’s side; So, they gave him a perch instead of a ride, and that made him happy.

He stood carefully, not quite relaxed; But getting there. They knew a warrior when they saw one, and this was a bug perfectly confident in his ability to escape their grasp if he wanted to.

They wouldn’t test it.

The Little Teacher chatted aimlessly to their bound sibling, The Hollow Knight finding entertainment in watching the conversation rattling and ricocheting within their shared body, sentences and signs stepping on and over eachother as Ghost’s proficiency grew further.

They wondered, if the Little Teacher counted as a vessel, now? What a funny irony that would be! A non-vessel acting as a vessel for a Vessel.

Although, their little sibling had grown long past _that_ title now; They had seen it in their dreams, at the tips of their form where they brushed together, linked by their shared make.

_The little Ghost held power_. It swam deep, buried and obscured by their moorings within a physical form, but where it touched the surface, they could feel the tremors of something much greater than themself passing by.

It reminded them of their sister. Of the spooled power hidden within her body; Wyrm and beast. She was still small, and they hoped someday she would come into her full potential.

Or perhaps, of their father. His bare touch always stung against their shell when he took the time to check them over, the opposing energy of his light and the void within them repelling.

But, of course, there was nothing repellent about little Ghost. Even buried within flesh and shell they felt like the warm comfort of the void, like home.

As the Little Teacher switched topics again, they tuned back into the conversation. He was teaching, and the Hollow Knight liked learning.

“- Great big digging bugs, they used, the size of houses!” He spoke about the construction of the tram tunnels, gesturing wildly as he spoke. “I saw some myself on my travels! There was a city, technically two cites, split by a mountain range; When I arrived, they were working on connecting the two, by driving these enormous bugs to dig directly through the rock. They were almost halfway done when I arrived, and I expect they’d be finished by now. I believe they planned to use the tunnels as streets, similar to Hallownest, I suppose.”

The Hollow Knight found their interest piqued. While they never had a formal education, as such, they had always believed Hallownest to be the only civilisation in the world. Part of their father’s rhetoric, they supposed, as if the cursed desert alone wasn’t enough to keep bugs in; They had to also believe the very world outside was _empty_.

Even that wasn’t true, they knew. They had heard of roads and trails through the wastelands that offered protection from the eroding effects of the dust, allowing a bug to keep their mind intact.

As traders trickled into Dirtmouth from outside, they had seen maps of these roads.

Out of curiosity, they had bought one.

The world outside sounded fascinating to them. As the Little Teacher moved to another topic, their mind stuck and fixated on the story. They wondered what it was like there. They felt… _Almost_… A desire to go see for themselves. To step into the tunnels. To walk those foreign streets.

_Maybe they wanted to travel?_ They weren’t sure how to identify a “want”, they had only just figured out how to tell what they liked.

_“Hollow Knight wants to hear more about your travels.” _Ghost signed, but the Hollow Knight didn’t need to see them to pick up their words; For they thought _loud_, so loud._ “I do too.”_

“Oh, well, I suppose you’re in luck; I’ve been out on the road for a _very_ long time, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of wonders.” He tipped his head towards The Hollow Knight, leaning as far into into their vision as he could. “What do you want to hear about?”

Hm, more cities, they supposed. More places full of bugs living their lives in unknown ways.

Ghost parroted them, making the little Teacher bring one hand to his mask in thought. “Well… I suppose my freshest memory would be the kingdom I passed through as I travelled back here… Have either of you heard of Pharloom?”

\---

Myla wouldn’t leave Lemm alone. 

Quite the opposite, in fact, she was trying to get him to join her. 

Lemm was not one to be led to some secondary location so easily, though, nor was he entirely blind to his situation. 

In fact, he was in a bit of a jam. He was in Deepnest, as Myla had not been shy to tell him, and his chances of survival or escape were slim at best, especially alone. 

But, at the same time…

“No, I’m not coming with you.” 

Lemm had read enough wanderer’s journals to know where this was going.

He was not stupid, whatever affliction was going around now, he had well and truly caught it; And he had no intentions of hanging around inside some packed, wet cave with a well-intentioned stranger.

Someone would die. And it would probably be him. 

“What?” Myla gasped, “No, d- don’t be silly, I promise, it’s really safe, we’ve g- got clean water and- And- Um…” She paused, her glowing review falling flat. “... Did I mention it’s s- safe? Come on, I’ll show you.”

“I said no. I’m not staying here; I’m going to climb right out of this hole, I’m going to go home, and I am going to lock the door. Whatever’s going on down here, I want nothing to do with it.” He crossed his arms, lest the endless scratching at the back of his mind finally succeeded in making him lash out. “You should do the same.”

“B- But-” Myla stammered, trying to step closer only for Lemm to step back. “You don’t understand, it’s impossible to leave. And- And the monsters…” 

“I don’t care.” _He did._ “I’m going to sit this out alone.” 

“But why would you? I- I don’t- Oh, no.” Myla covered her face, “Is it me? A- Are my eyes glowing? No, n- no, they said it would go away!”

“What? No,” Lemm squinted. “No, they’re not, I just-” 

It wasn’t working. She wasn’t going to rest until she brought him to safety, but… If she _knew_ he was infected… Well, if she had any sense, she’d leave him well alone. 

_“Oh, for the love of-_ Look at me! I can’t come with you because I’m _already infected_!” Lemm finally snapped, jabbing a finger at himself. “Have some sense! You should leave me well alone and get back to your safe little hidey hole, or wherever it is you’re trying to drag me!” 

“You’re…? Oh.” Myla said slowly. “_Oh_.”

She had gone very still. It was… Strange. Her body language, the way she held herself, it had suddenly changed. “... No.” 

Lemm blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No. I won’t leave you. It’s okay.”

“I… No, it’s not,” She had his arm. When did she-? “Let go of me.”

The scratching at the back of his head had turned into a static buzz; Screaming at him to _protect himself,_ screaming to _gather the flesh and feed the void-_ Lemm shook the thought out of his mind.

Myla kept talking. Her voice, already hushed, taking an oddly soft quality. “I- it’s perfectly okay, I promise; I won’t hurt you when you try to kill me.”

“What?” _When_ he tries to kill her? “No, _no_, there is no ‘_when’-_” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I once had a dream where Quirrel was trapped on the counter at McDonalds and was forced to Fortnite dance for food and I feel that could be an analogy for this fic, somehow  
Anyway I struggled with this one a bit, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway! :3!  
Yeehaw


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